


Da'len

by thepistachioman



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepistachioman/pseuds/thepistachioman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows Hawke and Merrill through the events of DA2 and into Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the varterral

Hawke hated fighting on Sundermount. The ground was loose dirt and sharp rock, awful to fall on. The howling wind carried darkspawn shrieks that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. The cave their quarry had taken to was claustrophobic and winding and Hawke wished she could return, even if it meant braving the misting rain on the mountain’s path.

She couldn’t understand how the Dalish could stake their camp here. Six years they'd refused to budge, even when the viscount sent loaded letters on the importance of the Dalish nomadic lifestyle.

The Keeper had called the monster a varterral. Before they attempted to find the creature, Hawke had searched the Viscount’s library for references to the name, though she had found nothing but a few lines in a stained bestiary that advised the prospective hunter to “give up, go home and take up beet farming.” So, naturally, here she was, hunting the spindly spider-thing.

The varterral’s cave went deep under Sundermount, a tight corridor winding through the rock. Hawke had left the others at the entrance and pushed ahead to try to see the monster, relying on all her skill in silent movement.The corridor wall gaped open just ahead, and she could see a massive chamber almost twenty meters below her. The corridor continued off to one side and Hawke saw it re-emerge down below, a wide floor specked with light from vents in the cavern’s roof.

The chamber vibrated, staccato pulses under Hawke’s feet. The rumbling was quiet and regular, just enough to slightly throw off her balance. Hawke crept up against a rock, concerned. She scanned the darkness below her, watching for movement- there! Against the far wall, a great, mossy mass, wrapped in legs that seemed far too thin for its massive bulk.

Hawke studied it. She could see why the Dalish worshipped the creature, even if they feared to approach it. There was an ethereal beauty to the thing. A relic of another time. In her head, Hawke rated it against other monsters she had killed, trying to gauge their chances. It was smaller than the full-grown ogre they had fought in the Deep Roads, but when she fought that she had been able to convince Aveline to help her, and the stoic guard-commander had been able to engage the ogre long enough for Hawke and Isabella to strike at its tendons. That would be of no help here, unfortunately, as Aveline had begged off when Hawke had asked for her help, claiming that one of her guardsmen was under review and required a personal witness. In any case, Hawke doubted the varterral even had tendons she could cut.

From her position by the window in the corridor, Hawke could see little of the creature, but she had no intention of moving closer for a better vantage. The vibrations were regular, almost soporific, and Hawke wondered if the creature slept. Even the Dalish knew almost nothing about the varterral, only that it was immortal and, if their stories were to be believed, had come to their defense countless times.

Hawke started as the quick vibrations dislodged a clod of dirt from the cavern roof beside her. She glanced back at the varterral, checking it hadn’t moved, then, not taking her eyes off the creature, she crept back to the corridor. After a hundred metres Hawke doubted the creature would be able to sense her, but even so she moved silently and smoothly, unwilling to take the risk.

Merrill, Fenris and Sebastian waited for her at the cave’s mouth. They hadn’t seen her yet, cloaked in the shadows of the cave. Sebastian was toying with an arrow. His beautiful white armour was caked in mud and grime from the trip up the mountain. Fenris was the same, sitting on a rock and cleaning mud from the hilt of his massive sword, but Merrill was spotless, which Hawke attributed, as she did most of Merrill’s little oddities, to “Dalish magic”.

The trio were arguing, which hardly surprised Hawke, their voices barely audible over the wind outside the little cave mouth.

“Merrill, you have to understand. The Chantry outlaws such things for a reason.” Sebastian’s clipped Starkhaven tones were kind, but Hawke saw Merrill bristle at his tone. She crept closer, worried. Sebastian had been furious when he learned that Hawke expected him to work with a blood mage, and even more so when Hawke refused to order Merrill to stop using her blood around him. He hadn’t spoken to either of them for two days after that. But then he had apologised, and Hawke had thought the matter closed.

“The Chantry laws do not apply to us, human. You know that.” Fenris’ words threw Hawke completely. She knew he had no love for humans, but his hatred of magic ran far deeper than that. Hawke had seen him in battle by Merrill’s side, the way he watched her almost as much as his opponent, as though he expected her to turn on him. And he had stressed often that he felt no comradeship with other elves. What was he doing defending Merrill?

“Of course they apply to you! The other elves in the alienage abide by the laws of the city, why shouldn’t you?” Sebastian paused and Hawke saw him pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. “And it’s dangerous as well! You do not know what you are risking-”

Fenris interrupted him. “I am not a city elf. And neither is she, for that matter.” He stood and turned to face the cave mouth.

“I’m not endangering anyone, Sebastian.” Merrill’s lilting Dalish tones were subdued, but hard. “Well, except myself, maybe. And I’m allowed to do that.”

“Merrill, please. Aveline would agree with me. And Hawke, too, I think. She is very,” he paused, “well, permitting with you, and it may be an important part of your culture, but even she-”

“Even I would do what?” Hawke said, stepping out from the shadows.

Merrill and Sebastian both started, and Hawke was sure Fenris flinched, but he refused to let her see. She looked at Sebastian. “I thought we decided that Merrill’s magic was off-limits?”

Sebastian and Merrill looked at each other. Fenris snorted. “Her magic? What’s that got to do with this?”

Hawke frowned. “You haven’t just been arguing about Merrill’s blood magic?”

Merrill giggled. Hawke started- since she had found her mirror, Merrill had been quiet and watchful, and Hawke was worried. In fact, that was partly why she had agreed to aid her friend, hoping that seeing her people again might drive away the melancholy that had settled on the girl. Of course, she had been completely wrong there, as the elves- the polite ones, at least- had pointedly ignored her. “No, Hawke. We were talking about shoes.”

Hawke was lost again. “Shoes? But-”

Sebastian laughed. “Shoes. Merrill ought to be wearing them. Look at her feet, Hawke! Even in Hightown there’s enough broken glass to build a mirror.” Merrill cast her eyes down at that, though Hawke doubted the others noticed. “If it’s a matter of money, the Chantry has a fund for things like this.”

Merrill spoke again. “It isn’t money, Sebastian. Elves don’t wear shoes. At least, Dalish elves don’t. Otherwise you forget where the earth is.” Fenris snorted again. Hawke was sure he wanted to say something biting, but he held his tongue.

“I don’t tell Merrill what to do, Sebastian. Or any of you, actually.” Hawke frowned. “Why do I need to keep saying this?”

Sebastian opened his mouth, then closed it again. Fenris studied the clouds. Merrill looked at her feet. Hawke let the silence stretch, then gave in. “All right. I do tell you what to do, sometimes. Anyway. We’ve got an immortal spider to kill.”

 

 

Killing the varterral was easy, naturally.

Or at least, that was what Hawke convinced the others to tell Varric. The monster was faster than any of them had expected, and Hawke’s daggers had simply bounced off its ironbark hide. All of them carried fresh cuts and bruises from the fight, and the Keeper had insisted on allowing her to heal them before they headed back to Sundermount.

The sun was setting as they followed the mountain path back down to the city, dusty and exhausted. Hawke rubbed her shoulder, still uncomfortable with the seam that the Keeper’s magic had made of the gash the varterral’s tooth had given her. She had plenty of experience with healing magic- despite countless cuts she had earned living in Lothering, she didn't bear a single scar. Living with two mages had its advantages. But healing magic still left her with a strong sense of malaise, as though her body was unwilling to believe she had healed so quickly.

The path down Sundermount was treacherous in the half-light, and Fenris and Sebastian had offered to go ahead down to the post station at the base of the mountain and return with torches. From her position halfway up the mountain, the little station was a beacon of yellow light at the crossroads, a tiny moon to the massive glow that marked Kirkwall. A little ways below her, she saw periodic flashes of blue as Fenris’ lyrium tattoos as he simply walked through the little trees and rocks that Hawke would have stumbled on.

Then she looked a little further back, and she saw Merrill, and she thought that perhaps her unease was not entirely due to the Keeper’s magic. The death of the Dalish hunter had obviously affected her. Hawke remembered his face, the pure terror he had shown when he had seen Merrill. Hawke had tried to comfort Merrill when they found his body, rendered almost unrecognisable by the varterral’s massive claw. Hawke was awful at that kind of thing- somehow all she could do was try to make a joke, which tended to fall flat. Hawke guessed that Merrill blamed herself for Pol’s death, and according to the Keeper, the other elves definitely did. Before they had left, the Keeper had taken her aside, and her words rang in Hawke’s ears.

“I am ashamed that I cannot ask you to stay the night.” The Keeper’s voice had been regal, ancient- the kind of voice that was both comforting and terrifying at once. “But I do not think that you would be safe here.”

Hawke had shrugged. “We found your hunters. Did we offend your people?”

“Not you, Hawke. Merrill. I know Pol’s death was an accident, but she was the last to see him alive, and that is enough for some. They fear her, Hawke. And they are not without cause.”

Hawke had snorted. “Oh, yes. Just look at her. All claws and pointy teeth. Wait, no, that was the varterral. But they feared that too, didn’t they?”

The Keeper had frowned. “Do not mock us, human. They will not raise a hand against her, because I will not permit it. But all the same I do not wish to tempt them.”

Hawke had turned to go, but the Keeper called her back. “Hawke. She listens to you. Tell her to abandon it. Her debts will be paid, one way or another. And her teacher will not remain her friend for long.”

The Keeper’s words had struck a nerve- Merrill’s story had Hawke worried. The demon, the arulin’holm, it all struck Hawke wrong. But Merrill had asked her for help, what else could she have done? In any case, Hawke was angry, and tired, and it showed. “Oh, are we talking in riddles? I’ve got one: What has really cold feet and hates this mountain?”

The Keeper had looked closely at Hawke, and, worryingly, ignored her sarcasm. “She trusts me no longer. The eluvian will consume her, Hawke- and by the end, I do not think you will know her.”

Now, watching Merrill, Hawke wondered if she ought to have taken the Keeper’s words more seriously. The girl looked- Hawke searched for the word- shattered. Tell her to abandon it. How could she? The mirror meant everything to her. She trusts me no longer. Did she trust Hawke? In three years, there had never been secrets between them. Since Bethany was taken to the Circle, it had meant a lot to have someone who she could rest easy around, to let her guard down. But Merrill had hidden the eluvian from her, even lied to her. Hawke found herself wondering whether Merrill would have told her anything if she hadn’t needed her help to get the arulin’holm.

  
Below her, Merrill picked her way through a thicket of dead trees. She looked up, back at Hawke. The elf smiled a tired smile and gestured to her to hurry up and Hawke shook those unworthy thoughts from her head. Merrill was her friend, she reminded herself. Over and over she had trusted the elf to watch her back. There were a thousand reasons Merrill might not have told her about the mirror, not least among them that it wasn’t any of Hawke’s business.

Hawke exhaled and stepped down. Ahead of her, the Wounded Coast glittered in the vestiges of the sunset. She walked quickly down the path, cold in the shade of the mountain. She hoped to catch Merrill before the sun set fully. Merrill knew the path far better than her, and she didn’t like the idea of being caught out on the mountain alone after dark.

A darkspawn shrieked, faint and far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probs gonna continue this


	2. the feast

The city was on edge.

There was nothing tangible in it, of course. The qunari had coexisted with Kirkwall for three years, and there was nothing to suggest that would change in the near future. But the Carta had gone silent, which, according to Varric, was the first and most reliable alarm bell. “Dogs can smell a storm”, he'd said, and he'd laughed. Hawke supposed that was his way of coping. Everyone had one; the nobles in Hightown threw parties, the merchants barred their windows, and the poor turned to the Chantry or the Hanged Man. The city was oppressive, forboding thick on the air.

The guard Aveline had defended while Hawke had been on Sundermount was the latest in a string of “unfortunate incidents”, according to the office of the Viscouny. Despite Aveline’s best efforts, the guard was fired for “failure to perform her duty”- which was to say, she refused to obey a prominent magistrate when he ordered a beggar whipped. A few days later, the magistrate had been found dead in his mansion, and a hysterical maid was telling anyone who would listen of the qunari she had seen sneaking out of Hightown. That was the city Hawke had returned to: half furious, half terrified.

Two weeks since Sundermount, and Hawke had not seen Merrill since they parted ways in the early dawn light at the Lowtown gates. She had been quiet, still in grief, and Hawke’s attempt to discuss the Keeper’s words had fallen on deaf ears. In any case, she had had no time to worry about her friend since then. Fresh concerns had shoved her off to one side. There had been a threatened riot in the marketplace, a surge in bandits on the streets of Lowtown, even a minor plague outbreak in Darktown. That last had consumed her life for two days- Anders’ clinic had been swamped and he had begged her for aid. Now, exhausted from scrounging for elfroot in the sewers, Hawke was headed down to the docks at an urgent message from Aveline.

Aveline was run ragged as well. The viscount had ordered her to double the guard around the qunari compound, but to do so without risking provocation to the Arishok. She had taken an abandoned warehouse opposite the compound as her headquarters, obsessing over guard rosters and injury reports. She had asked for Hawke to meet her after dusk, and to bring Fenris- which Hawke had taken as an ominous sign.

The guard-commander was haggard, but she brightened when she saw Hawke and Fenris and ordered a guard to light the brazier against the autumn chill.

“Aveline.” Hawke paused, worried. The commander’s office was a small room off the warehouse, stocked with so much armour and weaponry the three of them could barely fit. The warehouse floor was dark below them, but Hawke made out rows of training dummies, bushels of arrows- in short, more than enough material to siege a small city. “Starting a mercenary company?”

The guard-commander frowned. “I worked for Athenril with you for long enough to never want to go back to that. Hello, Fenris.” The elf nodded to her. Aveline and Fenris were on cordial terms, closer than many of Hawke’s other companions. She put it down to some kind of macho-warrrior instinct thing.

Aveline stood up from her desk and stretched. Her office was airless, obviously picked for its vantage over the compound entrance than aesthetic value. Her guardsman’s plate clinked as she turned to the window, the picture of a veteran commander. She gestured out the window.

“The qunari are having a feast. They invited you, Fenris.”

Fenris was surprised. “They invited me?”

“Yes. It seems that you made an impression on the Arishok after that mess with the Tal’Vashoth. He asked for you by name. I need you to go, as representative for the city.”

Hawke moved to the window beside Aveline. She could see the blazing lights of the qunari compound. The heavy walls blocked her from seeing inside, but she smelt roasting meat and heard the shouts of qunari warriors.

Fenris was silent, but Hawke got the feeling he was impressed. Even so, he did his best to sound disinterested. “I am not a human, nor a guard. I do not represent you.”

Aveline shrugged. “You’re a resident of the city. Go to the feast, take part in the fights, try not to kill anyone.” She turned back to the window, watching the flickering lights. “This is unprecedented. In three years, the qunari have never invited an outsider to one of their feasts. If they asked for you, there has to be a reason.”

Fenris crossed his arms. “The qunari do not care for subterfuge. I am not a spy.” Aveline opened her mouth to protest, but he forestalled her. “But you cannot offend the Arishok. I am not blind, either.”

Aveline stepped back from the window. “Thank you, Fenris.” She gestured to the massive blade on his back. “You can’t go armed, of course, but the Arishok made a personal vow that you would not be harmed. And my guards will be watching for any sign of trouble.”

Hawke studied the compound while Aveline briefed Fenris. The Viscount was worried, though she wondered how much of this plan actually came from him, rather than Aveline carrying his seal. She knew the guard-commander was a shrewd tactician, and she saw what she was doing- placating the Arishok by obeying him with one hand, and preparing her guards for a war with the other. She wasn’t sure whether her preparations were comforting or concerning.

Aveline moved back over to Hawke when Fenris left. “He’ll be all right, Hawke. The qunari aren’t ready to make their move yet.”

Hawke watched the elf make his way across the street, diminutive beside the massive, spear-toting qunari. “You make it sound like a foregone conclusion, Aveline.”

“I suppose I do. I hope it isn’t. But I’d rather assume the worst and be pleasantly surprised than the other way around.”

Hawke smiled. “Aveline, you know you could have just asked Fenris for help, right? You didn’t need me here. I don’t suppose I got an invite to the party of the year myself.”

Aveline clapped her on the shoulder. “You did, as a matter of fact. We decided it would be better to send Fenris than you.” She looked away. “Things tend to be explosive around you, Hawke. And I’ve seen Fenris speaking with the qunari. He understands them. He was the diplomatic choice.”

Hawke considered protesting, but thought better of it. She had a point, after all, and to be honest, she was far more at home with knife-fights in the Hanged Man than a qunari feast. Fenris was the right choice. She feigned hurt anyway. “Well, I’m sure you thought up an equally important mission for me, didn’t you? Something terribly glorious, please, but not too taxing. I’ve had a hard week.”

Aveline clasped her hands behind her back. “I’m afraid not, Hawke. If I were you, I’d use this time to go home. Leandra is worried about you, you know.”

Hawke scowled. “Of course she’s worried about me. She’s my mother, she needs a hobby.”

Aveline turned to Hawke and held her gaze. “I’m worried about you too, Hawke. I heard what happened on Sundermount. And I haven’t seen Merrill in almost two weeks.”

Hawke shifted uncomfortably. Aveline’s words had brought her concerns raging back. Truth be told, she and Merrill had not parted on excellent terms. Trying to broach the subject of the Keeper’s advice had not made Merrill particularly happy. _She trusts me no longer_.

She'd done her best to be diplomatic, but Merrill was intractable. “Merrill, you could leave it off for a while. Let Anders take a look at the mirror.” The girl had rounded on her, pale face furious in the pre-dawn.

“You think he knows this better than me? He’s a shem! What does he know of elvish magic?” Hawke had been surprised. She had never heard Merrill use the elvish word before. It fell heavy off her tongue, like something foul.

“You trust me or you don’t, Hawke. I don’t need his supervision.” She cut herself off quickly, but Hawke thought she knew what she wanted to say- or yours.

Hawke had felt her face grow hot. They simply didn't argue, normally, and so she felt out of her depth- which made her angry.“You didn’t even tell me about the mirror until you needed me!”

Merrill had had the grace to look embarrassed at that. She had said something in Elvish, something which didn’t sound particularly complimentary, and ridden ahead of her.

Hawke doubted Sebastian or Fenris had heard their argument, but all the same none of them spoke until Merrill turned off for the alienage once they passed the city gates.

If she were honest, Anders’ emergency hadn’t been so pressing that she had to drop everything for him. She had welcomed the chance to work on something so unequivocally noble, something where she was sure that just by being present she was doing something right. It had been so easy to throw herself into the city’s problems and put her own aside. Now she felt like a coward.

Aveline took her silence for an answer. “You haven’t seen her either, have you?”

Hawke shook her head. No one was able to make her feel guilty like Aveline. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. I was- I don’t know.”

“Confused?”

“Yes.” Hawke exhaled. Now that it was out in the open, she was worried. Three days wasn’t such a long time, she reminded herself. Isabella had once disappeared for a week just to avoid seeing an acquaintance from Ferelden. But given everything that had happened- Pol, the eluvian, the qunari- it struck her wrong.

Aveline studied her, hard. “I don’t know that you did the right thing, Hawke, giving her that tool. Wesley used to say ‘The only good thing about a maleficar is that they don't bleed as much on your uniform.”

Hawke turned back to the window. A flurry of shouts drifted up from the qunari compound. Aveline stiffened, her hand on her sword, but before long the noise died down and she relaxed. She spoke again. “Check in on her, Hawke. Soon.”

Hawke looked at her friend. She couldn’t be more than five years older than Hawke herself, but just then Aveline looked old, well beyond her years. Her tone was iron, but sad, and Hawke found herself reminded of Ferelden, watching Aveline kill her husband rather than see him succumb to the Blight.

The steps up from the docks were treacherous at night, and the blaze of light behind her threw off her depth perception. Hawke stopped at the top, looked down at the compound. She hoped Fenris was safe. Then she turned right, heading for the silhouetted vhenadahl over the alienage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. the hut

Hawke had to almost kick in the door before Merrill answered. The girl was pale, livid- the pallor that came from extended blood magic. Hawke was no stranger to the sight- she had fought by Merrill’s side enough times to see the cost that it put upon her, and any relief she felt at seeing the girl disappeared on seeing her so drained.

 

She crossed her arms, leaning in the doorway, and that troubled her as well. Ordinarily her friend was effusive, surprised that Hawke was willing to make the trip down to the alienage to see her. Hawke supposed it was to be expected. They had fought before, of course, but they had never left things on such bad terms for so long. But it still stung- seeing her friend again, a silhouette in the cold light of her veilfire lamp, Hawke wanted nothing so much as to throw her arms around her.

 

“Hello, Hawke.” Her voice was hoarse from disuse. “Is something wrong?”

 

“What? No. Well, yeah, the qunari are going to revolt, according to Aveline. But that’s not why I’m here.”

 

Merrill was silent, waiting for her to elaborate. Hawke shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Perhaps it was just the chill, but the alienage always made her uncomfortable. The elves’ hostility to outsiders was a palpable presence. Hawke wondered how they would react if the qunari did attempt a revolt. Would they see them as conqerors, or as liberators? Given how the elves were treated, even by the poorest humans, she would be hardly able to blame them if they did side with the qunari.

 

Hawke drove those thoughts from her head. She was here for Merrill, she reminded herself, not the qunari. She spoke without thinking. “Maker, Merrill. You look like shit.”

 

Before she could respond, Hawke took her by the hand, feeling her pulse. It was faint and slow, and her hand was clammy. She moved her hands to her shoulders, looking into her eyes. Anders had taught her this trick. Extreme magical exhaustion, blood magic or otherwise, caused the blood vessels around the eyes to engorge. A spiderweb of dark lines marked Merrill’s wide green eyes. “Just how much blood did you use?”

 

Merrill’s face set in a hard line. “Not enough. The eluvian still needs work.”

 

Hawke tried to speak, but Merrill cut her off. “Hawke, if you’re here to tell me off again-”

 

“I’m not. Really. But no one’s seen you for two weeks, Merrill. We were worried about you.” _I was worried about you._

 

Merrill pushed Hawke’s hands off her, but her face relaxed. “I’m all right, Hawke. Just a bit tired.”

 

Hawke stepped back, looking at her friend. She seemed half delirious, her eyes unfocussed and jittery. She needed to lie down. “Merrill, do we have to talk on the doorstep? It’s bloody cold.”

 

Merrill smiled at that, and Hawke caught a glimpse of her friend again.“I’m being rude again, aren’t I? Sorry, Hawke. Come in, please.”

 

Merrill’s hut was cramped and unbelievably drafty for such a small place. Debris covered the floor, sketches on foolscap paper competing with fade-touched fabric and magical herbs. The blue light gave everything a sickly tinge, and the hut was cold and drafty.

Merrill flicked her wrist and the veilfire sputtered out. A moment later, a candle flared to life beside Merrill’s mussed bed and she sat down, gesturing Hawke to the hut’s only chair. In the next room, Hawke caught a glimpse of cracked glass and twisted wood. A red-stained bowl and a stone ritual knife sat by the inner door, and the iron tang of blood saturated the air.

 

She shivered. Merrill’s bed was barely two metres from the mirror. She couldn’t imagine living in the same house as that thing, let alone sleeping with it. Hawke had been in Merrill’s hut countless times, but now it felt insubstantial, otherworldly. It wasn’t a mage’s house, it was a house for- Hawke felt foolish to even think it, but it fit- it was for a _witch_.

 

Merrill followed her gaze and she dropped her eyes. She wasn’t here for that either, she reminded herself. She had no desire to get in another argument with her friend.

 

“Have you slept at all since Sundermount?”

 

Merrill drew her knees up to her chest and looked at her. “Yes, but only in bits. Plenty of nightmares, too.” Anders had told her about that as well, how overuse of magic tended to wear out the mage’s mental defenses, and that was like a giant bullseye for demons to come after the sleeper. Plus, Hawke wouldn’t have been surprised if more mundane nightmares came after her friend, given what she had seen on Sundermount.

 

“Do you want to talk about them?”

 

“No, not really. They’re just nightmares, everyone gets them.” The girl was closed off, more so than usual. She reminded Hawke of when they had first met, trying to hide her blood magic, afraid of how she would react.

 

Hawke tried to change the subject. “What have you been eating? Is there a spell to turn dirt into food?”

 

Merrill laughed. “No, though not for lack of trying. The Keeper once told me about a mage who was obsessed with tyromancy, turning things into cheese.”

 

“What happened to him?”

 

“He got possessed, I think. A spirit of gluttony took him. I think the Keeper was trying to teach me a lesson, but all it did was make me hungry.” She looked away. Hawke wondered what she thought of the Keeper now. She knew what it was to lose a home- the Blight had taken everything from her, except her mother- but to be cast out by her own people? Perhaps that was why she had latched onto the mirror with such ferocity- it was the instrument of her exile, and having invested so much the girl was incapable of stopping. Hawke wondered what she could say.

 

Merrill yawned, and it was infectious. Hawke realised just how long it had been since she had slept herself. A chill gust blew through the hut, sending the candle dancing and sputtering. Merrill’s voice was soft and small when she spoke again.

  
“What will you do if the qunari revolt, Hawke?”

 

Hawke shrugged. “I suppose I’ll fight them, same as everyone. But Aveline is doing a good job keeping them pacified. Perhaps they’ll just leave soon.”

 

Merrill lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes, and was silent for so long Hawke thought she had finally fallen asleep. “That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? But it won’t happen.” She paused. Her voice had that dreamy, delirious quality to it again, and Hawke wondered whether she would even remember what she had said in the morning. “I see the way you look at me, you know. You think I’m being possessed.”

 

“Merrill-”

 

“I’m not blind, Hawke. I know the eluvian is dangerous. I know you don’t trust it.” Her voice was slow, thick with the edge of sleep. “But I need to. I need you to trust me, Hawke.”

 

And that was the trump card. Hawke was speaking almost before she knew it. “Alright, Merrill. I’m with you. But only because you used your ‘you kicked my puppy’ voice again.”

 

Merrill laughed, her eyes still closed. “You should stay here tonight, Hawke. There are lots of gangs in Lowtown...” She drifted off again. Hawke shifted in the chair. It was uncomfortable, loose canvas draped over a wood frame, but she stayed where she was. Merrill had a point, after all- with the guards concentrated in the docks, they kept only a nominal presence on the streets in Lowtown.

 

Her friend was peaceful in the candlelight. Hawke wondered what was wrong with her. With anyone else, Hawke was confident, brave, firm in her convictions. She had stopped Varric from killing Bartrand, forced Aveline to get over her anxiety with Donnic. But with Merrill it was as though she was unable to think straight.

What was so different about her? She could disagree, grow angry, argue, but when Merrill asked her for help, it was like it all just faded into the background. If it had been any other mage, she would have suspected hypnosis or blood control- Kirkwall had more than its fair share of malificars, so she had seen the effects of blood slavery first-hand. But to suspect Merrill of such a thing was ridiculous. Hawke doubted she even realised the effect that she had upon her. No, this was a simple weakness on her part, a gaping hole in her judgement.

 And yet, even knowing that, she was powerless. She looked at the girl on the bed. In sleep, her face had lost that hard edge, though it was still pale and drawn. Hawke sighed. As confused as she made her, it was a relief to see her friend again. She settled deeper in the chair. Merrill wouldn’t have minded if she lay down beside her- she probably would have offered, if she could have stayed awake- but she stayed where she was, huddled in the little chair. Merrill needed her sleep far more than Hawke did, after all.

 Hawke slumped further into the chair as she slept. Behind her, a shard of twisted glass glinted blue in the candlelight.

 

 

 


	4. the practice

The pale sunlight beat down on the courtyard behind the Hanged Man. Boarded windows lined the walls and piles of refuse squatted in the corners, but Hawke was content. Few places in the city were as peaceful as this little square of bare dirt and terracotta paving.

 

Isabella had insisted on setting up the training area when Hawke moved into Hightown, promising that just living so close to the nobility of Kirkwall would drive her to insanity if she had nothing to punch. Varric had procured the courtyard for them, and even if it was occasionally used as a dump for the inn’s less worthy patrons, its seclusion had proven to be a bonus: it was the perfect place for Anders and Merrill to practice combat magic without the fear of unwanted eyes.

 

Today, though, there would be no magic. Hawke and Anders had originally intended to spar against one another- for a mage, Anders was unusually well trained in close-quarters staff combat. At Hawke’s insistence he had agreed, with some grumbling, to teach Merrill what he knew.

 

Hawke was currently perched on Varric’s suite windowsill, watching Merrill and Anders square off against each other. The girl seemed woefully uncomfortable, evidently used to using her staff as a magical foci rather than a regular weapon.

 

“Alright, Merrill. Swing at me.” The blond mage held his magic staff angled down and out from his body, the heavy bronze figurine at its top almost brushing the dirt.

 

“Okay. What do I do?”

 

Anders rolled his eyes. “Take your staff and hit me.”

 

Merrill frowned. “That’s it?”

 

“Well, I’ll try to stop you. That’s how it works.”

 

“It’s just, Hawke kills people before they hit me, usually.”

 

Anders sighed. “Eventually, there’ll be someone who tries to hit you before Hawke, or anyone else, manages to kill them. When that happens, you’ll want to know how to defend yourself, right?”

 

The elf girl shrugged. Awkwardly, she brought her staff around in a short swing at the blond mage’s ribs.

 

Anders’ staff snaked out from his underarm and caught the top of Merrill’s staff, twisting around it and slipping it from her hands to go clattering into the dirt. He had shifted his hands down almost to the blade of his staff, using the longer reach as a lever to force the staff out of Merrill’s fingers.

 

The girl stepped back, wringing her bruised fingers. She seemed surprised to see her staff on the ground, picking it up sheepishly. She looked up at Hawke, saw her smile, and her ears went red.

 

Hawke remembered when she had first sparred against the mage. His skill with the staff had taken her by surprise as well. And he had improved immeasurably since then, working with her to correct holes in his defense- as well as teaching her how to counter his style. Naturally, it was gratifying to see him play his trick against someone else, even Merrill.

 

“Again.”

 

This time, Merrill copied Anders’ grip, one hand near the base of her staff and sliding the other along the shaft to extend her grip. But, again, she was unable to touch Anders. The mage wielded his staff like a spear, jabbing at Merrill when she stepped close, always maintaining distance between the two of them.

 

He was good, but watching from above, it was easy to see the repetitive nature of Anders’ style. It was only natural, of course- being a mage meant that he simply didn’t need to develop a proper close combat style. It was flashy, but once the surprise at facing a mage who didn’t surrender at the first cut wore off, any competent duelist could have bested him.

 

When she saw the two of them beginning to tire, Hawke called a halt. Anders planted his staff in the ground and stepped back, reaching up to catch a stray lock of hair and return it to his ponytail.

 

She leapt lightly down from the windowsill. “He’s quite good, isn’t he?”

 

Merrill spoke between deep breaths. Any affectation of annoyance was gone, replaced by surprise at Anders’ skill. “I never even touched you, Anders. How did you learn to fight like that?”

 

Anders shrugged. “Well, it isn’t proper fighting, really, just memorising a few basic blocks and parries. I learnt back in Amaranthine.”

 

Nonetheless, Merrill was impressed. “Is it a Grey Warden thing?”

 

“A Grey Warden taught me, but I don’t think it’s standard training. She used to say, ‘No templar ever expects to get hit on the nose.” He smiled, a little bitter. “It’s a last-ditch sort of thing. Once your opponent realises you’re just repeating the same moves over and over, they can beat you. You just have to survive long enough that someone comes over to help you.”

 

“Will you teach me, Anders?”

Hawke wondered if Merrill was simply looking for a distraction. She had all but pulled Hawke out the door that morning, with barely a look back at her mirror. Hawke was fairly sure Merrill did remember the events of the previous night, but Merrill had said nothing, and so she had followed suit. In any case, she had been eager to leave the hut, chattering about sparrows in the Chantry towers and what they could have for breakfast.

 

Whatever her motive, Hawke was glad to see her friend out of her hut. In the sunlight the worries of the previous night seemed foolish, the mirror no more evil than any other object of demon-possession- like her healer friend, for example.

 

Anders frowned. “I’ve already been away from my patients too long… why don’t you teach her, Hawke?

 

Hawke rubbed the back of her neck. “You know this better than me, Anders.”

 

“Yes, but the style is really designed to work against swords and knives, not other staffs. We’ve sparred enough that you know all the moves, and anyway, the only way to learn the forms is practice. And I’m sure Merrill will enjoy watching you flail around, unable to hit her.”

 

Anders had been unusually polite to Merrill that day. Hawke knew he recognised those spiderwebs of magical exhaustion on her face, marks the night had yet to fully expunge. Ordinarily, he was exceptionally vocal in his criticism of her friend, but it seemed he was willing to follow Hawke’s example and avoid the issue for now.

 

Anders gestured Merrill forward again and she stepped into the centre of the courtyard, holding her staff out at an arm’s length. Anders cast a critical eye over her stance. “Put your feet further apart. Angle your torso- there. Staff down, angled across your body.” He stepped back and nodded. “Good enough. Hawke?”

 

Hawke stepped over to the wall, taking an old hickory practice sword- a “gift” from Aveline- from its place behind a cornice. “All right, Anders. Thanks for your help.”

 

Anders nodded. “Good luck, Merrill. Try not to summon any demons bigger than yourself.”

 

Hawke snorted. She supposed that was the best she could expect from him.

 

“That’s hardly fair, Anders. Every demon is bigger than me.” The girl’s face was so perfectly serious that Hawke had to hide her smile.

 

Anders shook his head and turned to leave. Hawke heard him muttering under his breath as he left, asking Justice for patience. She turned back to Merrill. If nothing else, it was nice to see her giving as good as she got from Anders.

 

She walked the girl through the basics of spear combat, relying on somewhat fuzzy recollections of lessons given by a hairy drill sergeant in the Ferelden army. It wasn’t precisely the same as Anders’ style- he had told her once that his friend had adapted it from an old elven text about mage-warriors, not Ferelden peasantry- but it served the same purpose, working on keeping the wooden shaft at an angle between the enemy and the spearman- or elf, in this case.

 

Once she judged Merrill grasped the basic concept, she took up the practice sword and faced the girl. “Ready, Merrill?”

 

The girl nodded, her thin face intent.

 

Hawke swung at her, a side cut without much force behind it. Merrill caught it on her staff and twisted, throwing her arm out.

 

She grinned at Hawke. She obviously got the idea, Hawke thought. She sped up her strikes, alternating between overhead swings, thrusts and side cuts to test Merrill’s reflexes.

 

Her defense wasn’t perfect. She was quick on her feet, and usually realised when Hawke was feinting well before she moved to defend, but her staff was often too slow to catch Hawke’s blade and she was able to slip in and tap Merrill with the point, just hard enough for her to notice.

 

Athenril had told her once that the best duelists relied on their opponent’s eyes as much as their own, that they telegraphed their intentions before they even started to swing. Merrill’s pale green eyes were focussed on her own, narrowed with concentration. There were flecks of blue in them, Hawke thought. How hadn’t she noticed that before?

 

“Hawke?”

 

She dropped her arm, realising she had stopped mid-strike. Merrill was looking at her, her head tilted quizzically.

 

Hawke shook herself. What was that? She didn’t lose concentration in a fight. She felt moonstruck, confused. Maybe she was sick? Unbidden, she remembered Carver one Summerday back in Lothering, when he had hid behind a hedge to watch the village girls walk through the town to the Chantry.

 

“Right, sorry. I got distracted.” It was far later than she had thought. It had been barely mid-morning when they arrived, and the sun had already reached its zenith and was making it way down to the horizon. “We’d better call it here. You’re getting better, by the way.”

 

Merrill laughed, her voice light and clear. She relaxed her grip on her staff, resting it at her feet. “Isabella told me once that you had to practice hitting your friends so that you got better at hitting everyone else. I never really understood it til now, because you can’t practice magic on most people, except templars, and they don’t like it.”

 

Hawke wondered when Merrill had been practicing her magic on templars. She decided not to ask.

 

She heard the door to Varric’s suite open. She saw Merrill hear it too, take a burlap sack from an inside pocket to cover the top of her staff. Hawke doubted it would fool a templar, but the disguise was enough for most passersby to look the other way. It was likely only Varric returning to his suite, but it never hurt to be careful.

 

The dwarf came to the windowsill and Hawke let out a breath. “Hey, Hawke. Gamlen's looking for you.”

 

Hawke frowned. “Gamlen went to you? Doesn’t he still owe you money?”

 

Varric shrugged. “I told him that and he said that he didn’t care, that this was important.” The dwarf leant forward and gave Merrill a hand up through the window. “Hey, Daisy. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

 

Merrill looked away. “Yes, I was busy. Sorry, Varric.”

 

The dwarf smiled. “Well, next time you think about going on a blood magic bender, come down here and I’ll buy you something that will do more damage in one night than you could do in a month.”

 

Hawke pulled herself up through the window. “Did Gamlen say what he wanted, Varric?”

 

“No, but he seemed worried. Or constipated. You humans make the same face for both, did you know that?”

 

Merrill frowned. “They do?”

 

“Oh, yes. It’s hard to tell, because you have to know them well enough to know what they had for breakfast.”

 

Merrill sighed. “It’s so much easier with elves. You just have to watch which eartip we wiggle.”

  
Varric frowned. “You have an eartip language?”

“Of course we do. The Keeper told me to stop pointing it out, though, because some elves think it’s rude.”

 

Again, her voice was so perfectly serious that Hawke had no idea of whether she was pulling their leg. She put it aside, resolving to ask the first elf she met.

 

“Well, I’d better go find Gamlen.” She looked at Merrill. Their sparring had sent a red flush to her face, but the black spiderweb was still noticable, and she still carried heavy dark circles under her eyes. She opened her mouth, wondering how to phrase what she wanted to say.

 

Merrill seemed to realise what she was thinking. “Go on, Hawke. I’ll stay here with Varric for a bit.” That was a weight off Hawke’s mind- she might have promised to help Merrill finish fixing her mirror, but she still didn’t want her going back to that dark hut alone.

 

“Good. If this is serious, I may need you two with me.”

 

Varric grinned. “Naturally. Come on, Merrill. If we can get Rivaini in, we’ll have three for Wicked Grace.”

 

Hawke watched Merrill go. While she had been with the girl, it was as though all her other problems had faded into the background. Now she was alone, they came roaring back. The qunari. The disappearing women. Her workers down at the Bone Pit. And, come to think of it, she hadn’t been back to see her mother for a few days.

 

Hawke shook her head. Had she just referred to Merrill as a problem? That was unfair. She thought of that strange moonstruck-feeling she had felt while the sparring. Perhaps she really was getting sick.

 

She started for Gamlen’s hut. She hoped it was nothing serious.

 

 

 


	5. the pyre

The qunari corpses blazed in the pyre in the Viscount’s gardens. Hawke took a Sten by the horns, signalled Aveline to take his mangled legs, and together they heaved the warrior onto the bier.

 

Hawke stepped back, sweating in the heat of the flames. After the Arishok’s death, the qunari had quietly collected the swords from their warrior’s corpses and headed out of the city. Given the chaos following the battle, the Knight-Commander had not thought it worthwhile to pursue them, sending only a small contingent of templars to ensure the qunari left quickly and bloodlessly.

 

And with that, the templars had returned to the Gallows and the Chantry, forgetting the huddled grey masses piled on the floor of the Keep.

 

Aveline’s face was grey with exhaustion. The guards had been hardest hit by the qunari forces, and fully two thirds of her forces now lay strewn on the streets up from the docks. Nonetheless, her shoulders were square and her voice strong as she directed her guards.

 

Hawke put her hand on Aveline’s shoulder. The guard-captain barely seemed to notice her.

 

“I think that’s all the last of them.”

 

Hawke turned to the gates, where a procession of guards bore four more qunari corpses for the pyre. The flames were already higher than her head, greasy yellow tongues lapping eagerly at the fuel.

 

A misting rain began to fall and Aveline swore. “That’s all we need now, isn’t it?”

 

Hawke grinned. “A shame it didn’t start earlier. The qunari might have just run for shelter.” Her own voice was cracked and hoarse from the battle.

 

Aveline looked at her. “The Champion of Kirkwall. You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

 

Hawke shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting anything that happened today. The Arishok, the qunari, Isabella. I was planning to go fishing with Varric.” She moved to the garden balcony, looking down at the city. The qunari had cut a bloody swathe through Lowtown, a trail of red-dyed mud brick and smouldering hovels.

 

Despited herself, Aveline smiled. “I didn’t know Varric was a fisherman.”

 

“Well, he uses Bianca, so he got banned from all the competitions. It’s quite relaxing to watch, though.”

Hawke watched a company of templars make their way down the main street to the docks. A few mages had used the chaos of the qunari attack to make good their escape. Anders had suspiciously disappeared when he heard that piece of news, and she wondered if she should go down and make sure he didn’t kill anyone important.

 

Aveline leant on the parapet, seeing the company Hawke was watching. “It’ll be hell trying to control the templars without a Viscount. Especially since they just saved the city.”

 

Hawke scoffed. “With a little help from us.”

 

“Yes, I suppose. The city is going to need you more than ever now, Hawke. How are you holding up?”

 

“Oh, not so bad. Better than the Arishok.”

 

Aveline sighed. “Of course. Hawke, if you ever need to talk-”

 

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Aveline.”

 

Aveline punched her on the arm, good-naturedly. “Well done, Hawke. We’d be a lot worse off without you, you know.” She turned back to her guards and Hawke heard a note of hostility in her voice.

 

“Hello, Isabela.”

 

“Aveline.” The pirate’s voice was guarded. “About earlier-”

 

Aveline cut her off. “This whole mess was your fault.” She paused, and Hawke wondered if she was going to hit her. Her next words came as a surprise. “But, you came back when we needed you to. Don’t leave again, and we’re square.”

 

Isabela laughed. “No promises, captain.”

 

Hawke watched Aveline return to her guards, red-faced.

 

“That went better than expected.”

 

Hawke smiled. “Is that the worst anyone’s given you?”

 

“Sebastian said something about redemption being everyone’s right, but that was more smug than anything. The others were mostly just surprised I came back.” She paused, looking out over the city. “I wonder if I should be insulted by that. By the way, I take it that since you didn’t hand me over to the Arishok, we’re good too?”

 

Hawke wondered if she ought to be angry herself at Isabela. Aveline had a point, after all. It _was_ all her fault, after all. But Isabela had returned when it mattered, and Hawke hardly felt in the position to judge anyone. Now that the adrenaline from the battle had faded, she felt shaky and weak. Worse, she was beginning to doubt her own actions.

 

“Of course we are, Isabela. Besides, after you kicked in the door to rescue us, I couldn’t just hand you over, could I? Varric could never have put that in his book.”

 

Isabela kept her eyes down on the city. “I’m afraid I missed most of the battle. It looks terrible down there.” She pulled herself up onto the parapet. “And yet, I’m glad it’s over at last.”

 

Hawke turned and looked at the qunari pyre, grey skin cracking in the fire. “Yes, it’s over. Perhaps this was the best we could hope for, in the end.” She could just make out the Arishok’s corpse. It had been the first to burn.

Isabela looked at her, her usual smirk gone. “It was a relief, wasn’t it? To put an end to it. Draw a knife and hang the consequences.”

 

Hawke shivered. She hadn’t intended to admit it, but it was true. The thrill of battle had been a welcome change from the confusion and foreboding that had plagued her since Sundermount. To face an enemy she could see, who bled when she cut them. And now that it was over, she found herself at odds. That sense of purpose, the need that had united even Meredith and Orsino, had disappeared.

 

“I can’t even bring myself to blame the Arishok, now. He was a murderer, but so are we. He knew his duty and he did it.”

 

Isabela looked at her askance. “He also wanted to take me back to Par Vollen for a trial, remember?”

 

“So I killed him.”

 

“Yes. Have I thanked you for that yet?”

 

“You’re welcome to do it again.”

 

Isabela laughed. “Thanks, Hawke.” She turned to face her. “You need a distraction, I think. Look over there, but don’t be obvious.”

 

“What am I looking for?”

 

“That girl, in the silk dress. See her?”

 

Hawke scanned the gardens. There was a fountain in a little courtyard made by the hedgerow, a pretty, dark-haired girl on the balustrade.

 

“What about her?”

 

“Hawke, you’re oblivious. I can’t believe I trusted you to duel for my life.” Isabela laughed again. “I noticed her on my way over. I don’t think she’s taken her eyes off you since you killed the Arishok.”

 

Hawke met the girl’s eyes and she turned away, blushing. Hawke turned back to the city.

 

Isabela looked at her expectantly. “Well, are you going to go over there?”

 

“What? No, Isabela, I hadn’t planned on it.”

 

“Why not? She’s interested. She’s pretty. You need a distraction.”

 

Hawke cast about for an excuse. Fortunately, Isabela kept talking.

 

“Honestly, Hawke, you just rescued a city. Have a little fun.” She leaned forward, her voice conspiriatorial. “Unless… there’s someone else?”

 

Hawke wondered if she should invent something, just to get Isabela off her back.

 

“Is it Anders? Fenris? I bet those tattoos could do some wonderful things.”

 

“What? No, Isabela. There isn’t someone else. I’m just tired.” Hawke watched the crashing waves, very aware of how hot her face was. “Besides, she’s just looking. What makes you think she’s interested?”

 

“Really, Hawke, you’re almost as clueless as Merrill.” Isabela rolled her eyes. “After all, why would anyone want the woman who just saved them from death by qunari?”

 

“Isabela, I’m not going to just accost some random woman.”

 

“Well, it’s your loss, I suppose.” She looked at Hawke, and Hawke could almost see the gears turning in her head. “You’re sure there isn’t another reason?”

 

“Maker, Isabela, you’re a gossip.”

 

“Yes, I am… you do spend a lot of time with Merrill, don’t you?”

 

That surprised Hawke, but she took it in stride. “Yes?”

 

“And then she went dark for a while, and you were more sulky than- well, than Fenris that time he lost his sword.”

 

“I had a lot on my mind.”

 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you did.” Isabela looked at her, her eyes narrowed. Hawke held her gaze.

  
“What?”

 

“Nothing. It’s not important.”

 

“Isabela-”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Hawke.” She got off the parapet and stretched. “Come on, let’s go down to the Hanged Man.”

 

Hawke stood as well, pointedly not making eye contact with the girl by the fountain. Isabela noticed.

 

“She’s still watching you, you know.”

 

“Yes, I know. Let’s go.”

 

Isabela smirked. “You don’t want to go say hello? Give her a chance to thank you for rescuing her?”

 

“You know, the qunari aren’t that far away yet. I’m sure they’d still take you.”

 

“Like you said, Varric could never put that in his book.”

 

Hawke put on her best bandit-threatening voice. “He wouldn’t need to find out.”

 

Isabela laughed again. She had been doing that a lot since the Arishok died, Hawke thought.

 

“Whatever you say, Champion.” She started for the gate into the Keep.

 

Aveline nodded to Hawke as they left the gardens. The Keep was still strewn with blood, but there were already workers scrubbing at the flagstones, quick to erase the last traces of the qunari. Hawke saw a group of Chantry brothers carrying a shrouded, headless figure out of the Keep- the remains of Viscount Dumar.

 

Isabela’s boots clacked on the drying stone. “You know they’re saying the Viscount’s position is cursed? As if that job wasn’t already bad enough.” Her voice still had a joking tone, but she seemed to have dropped the subject of Hawke’s love life, which Hawke was grateful for. “Will they name a new Viscount?”

 

“I doubt it. They’d have to find someone willing, and who had the support of the nobles and the templars. That’s got to be a pretty short list.” From the gates to the Viscount’s keep, Hawke could see the top branches of the vhenadahl. Merrill was down there somewhere, she thought. There was that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach again. Everything that had happened had all but driven thoughts of the girl from her mind, but now those old fears returned, louder than ever.

 

Aveline had told her that the elves had avoided the worst of the fighting with the qunari by barricading the entrance to their quarter, but groups of looters mixed with armed refugees were still in the area and many of them had been shot when they approached the barricades. Merrill had left immediately upon hearing that news. Hawke was fairly sure she hadn’t returned to work on her mirror since that night in her hut, but she had seen the fear on her face at the mention of looters in the alienage.

 

Hawke would have liked to have gone with her, but Aveline had asked her to stay and be seen helping with the cleanup efforts. She worried about the girl, wandering amongst looters and fanatical humans.

 

Isabela saw where she was looking. “You want to go find her, don’t you?” That strange smile was playing at the corners of her mouth again.

 

Hawke looked at her friend. “Merrill can handle herself,” she said, more for her own benefit than Isabela’s.

 

“Yes, she can. But we're going to go find her anyway, aren't we?”


	6. elves

The gates of Lowtown lay in pieces on the street. A pair of templars stood guard on the walls, and more were lined across the entrance, blocking a small crowd from entering the quarter.

Varric approached Isabela and Hawke as they reached the gates. The dwarf was watching the crowd, a scowl on his craggy face.

“Hey, Hawke. Rivaini. The Hanged Man’s still off-limits, if that’s where you’re headed.”

Hawke clapped her friend on the arm. Both her and Isabela were still mired in the muck of battle, but somehow Varric was spotless.

“They won’t let you in? Did you tell them who you were?”

“Of course I did. Even offered to forgive a few debts to the captain there. No sale, I’m afraid.” He looked up at Hawke.

“Did they say why the quarter’s been sealed?”

Varric laughed. “Templar business. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Hawke scanned the crowd, looking for a shock of black hair and a staff. Human fanatics and looters and templars. What had Merrill gotten herself into now?

Isabela sighed.“If you ask me, locking the people out of the Hanged Man’s the best way to start another revolt.”

“Well, the templar’s aren’t making themselves any friends. Who are you looking for, Hawke?”

“Merrill. She come through here?”

Varric shrugged. “They set up the cordon on the way back to the Gallows, kicked anyone they found out here. If she was already in there, she probably still is.”

“Well, we need to get in there. Any ideas?”

“They didn’t let me in, but I haven’t killed any Arishoks today. You could go try your luck, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Hawke nodded and they headed through the crowd to the wall steps. Atop the wall, she saw a head of curly hair and that ubiquitous blazing sword sigil.

The captain turned to them as they climbed the steps. “Varric, I don’t care how much I owe you- oh, hello, Champion.”

“Cullen, right?”

The captain nodded. “I can’t let you through, Hawke.” At her look, he flashed a half smile. “Why else would you be here? We have orders to lock down the sector. That means everyone, I’m afraid.”

“Why is the sector locked down? It can’t just be the elves, can it?”  
“No, but they haven’t helped the situation. Some of the mages used the qunari attack to break out. Swam out from the Gallows. We caught one of them on the way back from the Keep, but the others are still loose.”

Hawke thought of Anders. It seemed she had more than one friend to rescue. “If you let me in, I can help you with the mages.”

Cullen met her gaze. “I spoke with Karras, Hawke. The Starkhaven mages- the ones you said you killed- we found them.”

Hawke sighed. She should have known that would come back to bite her. She tried to think of how to convince the templar. “Cullen, this is important. My friend is in there.”

“Not going to happen, Champion. The mages used blood magic to escape. Their lives are all but forfeit.” That stumped Hawke- she couldn’t very well tell Cullen her friend was in danger because she was trying to reach her demon-infested mirror.

Hawke moved to the edge of the wall. The crowd was growing, already at least a hundred strong. As she watched, a clump of people appeared on the street down from Hightown to join the group milling opposite the templars. Varric saw where she was looking and spoke up.

“Cullen, what will you do when the people decide they won’t wait any longer? You have six men.”

Cullen’s voice was strong, but his eyes betrayed his concern. “Six templars. The people will not attack their saviours.”

The dwarf grinned. “The saviours who are stopping them from seeing their families. Right. If only there was someone- a Champion, maybe- who could ask them to sit down and wait patiently.”

The templar exhaled. “I have my orders… but I won’t be responsible for a massacre. Tell the people to stand down, and I’ll let you in.” Hawke couldn’t believe that worked. “Where is your friend?”

“The alienage.”

“The alienage- it’s that elf, isn’t it? Well, go straight there. And Hawke? I’ve seen what blood magic does. I heard what happened to your mother. You should be the last person trusting maleficars.” He seemed to be referring to the missing mages, but all the same Hawke wondered just how much he knew about Merrill. But she could worry about that later; Cullen was letting them in.

 

The streets of Lowtown were deserted, though Hawke saw a few faces at the windows of the houses. Behind her, she could hear the discontented murmuring of the crowd at the gates. They had actually sat down when Hawke had asked them to, but she knew they wouldn’t wait forever. Still, it seemed the rumour of her hand in the Arishok’s death had spread more swiftly than she had expected.

The vhenadahl towered over the buildings ahead of them and wide grey leaves mixed with mud and blood in the gutters. Hawke turned and saw Cullen atop the walls, watching to ensure that the three of them really were headed for the alienage.

Ahead of them, a group of four templars exited a house and knocked at the next door. Hawke signalled Isabela and Varric to hang back and they waited until the templars had disappeared inside before continuing. They might have had Cullen’s permission to be there, but she figured it would be better if they avoided confronting the templars.

They rounded a corner and the street was thick with the smell of blood. The street leading down to the alienage was a ruin. The entrance to the little enclave was blocked by a cart propped on old barrels and crates. Crumpled bodies were strewn along the street, some with long arrows buried in them, others simply disembembered. Ahead, four of five people were hunched against makeshift cover in the street.

Hawke felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She saw a thin face appear above the barricade. Almost instinctually, she dropped to the ground, shoving Varric and Isabella down with her.

Above them, the air sang with arrows, skipping on the stones. Hawke breathed out, leapt up and dove into a stairwell. She felt Varric fall heavily beside her and saw Isabela leap to the other side of the street, pressing herself flat against a cornice.

“Everyone all right?”

Isabela laughed. “Can’t elves tell the difference between humans and qunari?”

“I don’t think the qunari came down here.” Hawke peered over little stone wall around the stairwell, trying to get a look at the survivors close to the alienage entrance. They wore black hoods and were armed with cudgels and short knives, and each of them had their left arm bare, a twisting tattoo marked on their upper arm. “Varric, do you recognise them?”

The dwarf pulled himself up beside her. Hawke looked further down the street, into the alienage. Now that she was looking for them, Hawke could make out the elves, hidden on balconies and clinging to the branches of the vhenadahl.

“Rat’s Nestors. What the hell are they thinking?”

Hawke swore. The Nestors claimed to be a mercenary company, though bandit gang was closer to the truth. Rat, their leader, had been the unofficial lord of Darktown before Anders had ousted him and installed himself in his old compound and co-opted it for his clinic. Since then the Nestors, now a shadow of their former strength, had made enemies against just about every other gang from the Sharps to the Followers, and now, apparently, the elves.

Rat’s men had been all but wiped out by the elves, but that seemed to have only enraged the rest of them. As she watched, one stood and dashed for the barricade. He was within a few steps of the cart before six arrows sprouted from his chest and he dropped.

Watching the man die, Hawke felt a sudden fear clutch at her. She raised her head higher and scrutinised the bodies on the street. The elves wouldn’t shoot at one of their own, would they?

Varric grabbed her and pulled her down as one elf, fancying himself a trick shot, loosed an arrow at her exposed head.

“Hawke, what the hell are you doing?”

Hawke said nothing. There was no mistaking it; a little further down the street, Merrill’s staff was leaning against the wall, blade buried in a huddled mass in the shadows. One bare foot extended into the late sunlight. Cold fear formed a vice around her chest.

Varric saw her face. “Hawke. Hawke!”

Hawke shook the fear from her. Merrill didn’t need her going to pieces. “I need to get to that wall. Can you give me some cover?” It looked bad, but it wasn’t her, she told herself. It wasn’t her.

Varric followed her gaze, saw the staff, and swore. “Alright, Hawke. But if I start shooting, the elves will never believe we’re not here to kill them.” He raised his voice to carry across the street. “Rivaini?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Need a distraction, please.”

Isabela nodded, then stepped out from the wall. She moved like lightning, dashing diagonally down the street and diving behind a pair of barrels. A scattered volley arced through the air, snapping off the stones behind her feet.

As soon as she saw the archers committed to Isabela, Hawke was moving. She stormed down the street, crashed down beside the staff. She needn’t have worried- the archers were so focussed on Isabela they didn’t even notice her. She reached down to the bundle, still half in shadow, and turned it over.

It was an elf. But it wasn’t her. Hawke breathed a silent prayer of thanks. The elf’s face was contorted, his hand still gripping the blade of Merrill’s staff buried in his chest. She pulled it out, a sickly squelch coming from the dead elf as the blade came free.

Merrill would never have left her staff by choice. That was a worrisome sign, but all the same Hawke was relieved. She imagined finding her friend lying in the street, pale and empty and gone. Anything was better than that.

She looked down the street again. From her closer vantage point, she had a better view of the bodies in the street. None of them were her. The alienage was at the end of the street, with no alleys or exits, and the houses on either side were locked, the residents either hiding or disappeared. Hopefully, Merrill was sitting safely in the alienage, probably furious she had needed to leave her staff to bandits.

Hawke was pulled from her musing by a hoarse roar. The five survivors rose and pushed forward, relying on tiny hand bucklers to protect them from the rain of arrows.

Two more fell to the elf bows before they reached the barricade, but the others swarmed over the cart and into the alienage. Hawke wondered what they were thinking. They were facing at least twenty elves, even once they reached the barricade. With those odds, none of the Nestors would be leaving the alienage.

The last man jumped down off the cart. Hawke listened, expecting to hear the screams and crunches of a melee inside the alienage.

They never came. The air buzzed and a massive surge of lightning struck the cart and it disintegrated. Hawke smelled burning hair. Through the gap in the barricade, she saw one bandit still standing, surrounded by the charred remains of his allies. He took a step back, but four arrows found him and he fell.

Further inside the alienage, a mage set down his staff. Apparently she had found the apostates, despite Cullen’s warning. Of course, it was his own fault. He had told her to go straight to the alienage and she had. She wondered if Anders had found them yet.

Hawke decided it was time the stalemate ended. She wondered briefly if the elves would shoot as soon as they saw her move. Regardless, she stood tall, raising her hands above her head in a symbol of truce.

She didn’t get shot, which was pleasant.

 

The elves weren’t apologetic. They looked down their noses at the three of them and told them off for being too near the other humans, but they allowed them to enter the alienage unmolested.

The mage had disappeared almost as soon as Hawke made herself visible, and the elves swore that the explosion had been nothing more than some over-ripe cheese in one of the barrels in the barricades which had caught a flame, and that they were as surprised as anyone when the cart exploded.

Hawke took them at their word. If they had struck a deal with the apostate for safe lodging in exchange for magical firepower, that was their own business. As far as she was concerned, the elves could keep their apostate, because they told her where to find hers.

The alienage vibrated with activity. The elves moved with practised ease- it seemed that dealing with pogroms and looters was something of an annual festival for them. Each one had a set duty- from the younger warriors in the trees to the children stacking bales of arrows on the balconies. Kirkwall’s alienage was lucky to have only one major entrance, and already the elves set about cleaning up the remains of the barricade and setting them aside for future use.

But none of that particularly mattered to Hawke, because she could see Merrill. She alone had no job to do and was sitting quietly by her doorway. She rose when she saw her. The elves had given her a wide berth, though Hawke knew few of them even knew the girl was a mage, let alone a maleficar.

“Hawke! What are you doing down here?”

And Hawke, clever, witty, sarcastic Ilya Hawke had absolutely nothing to say. Because, looking at the girl reminded her of that image of Merrill bleeding out- dying without Hawke beside her. A hundred little moments clicked and Hawke realised she was in love with Merrill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly about time man


	7. end of part 1

The first time Hawke kissed Merrill, she wasn’t entirely awake.

 

It was a few weeks after the qunari attack. Four of them- Fenris, Aveline, Hawke and Merrill- were holed up in a ruined windmill a few days ride out of Kirkwall. A cabal of Tevinter slavers were preying on the people who had fled the city in the leadup to the qunari attack, and Fenris had asked for her help dealing with them.

 

It wasn’t going as well as Hawke had hoped. The Tevinters had spies on the road and had seen them coming, and there were far more of them than Fenris’ contact had believed. They were too outnumbered to fight in the open. Aveline knew the area well and she had led them to the old windmill as the sun set, Tevinter arrows and fireballs skipping around their ankles.

 

The windmill was all that kept them alive. Once the moon rose fully, the Tevinters committed to an assault. They had at least two magisters with them, and more than thirty soldiers armed with light shields and long swords.

 

The fighting was fierce and desperate, but it was where Aveline and Fenris excelled. The windmill had no roof, but only two entrances and a low courtyard that forced the magisters to lob fireballs blindly into the melee, killing many of their own men.

 

Nonetheless, by the time they retreated Aveline had taken a bad cut to her shield arm and Fenris was limping from a bright red burn on his right leg. At least ten Tevinters lay on the courtyard, some moaning, most ominously still.

 

Hawke was unharmed herself, though that was more due to luck than skill. She watched Fenris, favouring his burned leg, walk over to a soldier who was trying to crawl away and put his arm through his chest.

 

He addressed himself to the dead soldier. “Such is the reward of all slavers.”

 

Hawke snorted. “You are so lucky Varric isn’t here. That’s straight out of _Hard in Hightown_.”

 

Fenris turned to her. His face was impassive, but Hawke could tell he was enjoying himself. “How do you think we’re doing?”

 

“We’ve bloodied them. I’d guess they’ll attack again before dawn, but not for a few hours.” Hawke watched Fenris move over to the wall, kneeling down gingerly. “How’s your leg?”

 

“I’ll be fine, Hawke.”

 

Aveline came over and sat beside Fenris, cleaning her sword of Tevinter blood. “I’ll keep watch down here, Hawke. Go upstairs and try to see the slavers are doing.”

 

Hawke nodded and headed into the windmill to check on Merrill. She wished Anders were here. Merrill was unbelievably powerful, but blood magic and spirit healing were such opposite disciplines that she could barely remove a bruise.

 

The windmill’s inner stairs had been wood, and so they had rotted away years ago. There was a platform at the top of the windmill that had once been the first floor, just low enough for Hawke to grab and pull herself up.

 

Merrill was crouching by the outer wall. She signalled for Hawke to stay down, then returned to staring out into the mass of black forest. Her staff crackled with energy and she stood and lightning forked out into the trees.

 

Hawke heard a cry of pain and saw a man with a staff jittering as the lightning coursed through him.

 

“Na melana sahlin, shem!”

 

Merrill never saw the ice until it was already on top of her. It was a small cluster, rolling like a little storm in a bottle. It struck her in the side of the head and shattered and she let out a surprised sigh as she went down, coated with frost and already blue with cold.

 

Hawke leapt forward and caught her before she hit the ground, lowered her down behind the wall. She looked out at the forest. She couldn’t even see where the other magister had fired from, so she put it aside. She didn’t even have a bow, after all.

 

The girl was icy cold. “Hawke? What was that?”

 

Hawke pushed her hair to the side, searching for blood. She let out a sigh of relief. The ice had hit Merrill hard, but it had lost much of its momentum arcing up towards the windmill. It hadn’t even broken her skin. She would have a concussion, but nothing more.

 

Magical ice was dangerous, but it didn’t last long. On a warm day, it was nothing to worry about, as the ice faded quickly enough that it posed no real threat to it’s victim. But it was almost midnight and a chill autumn breeze gusted through the windmill. Merrill wasn’t even shivering, which was a bad sign. If she wasn’t warmed up quickly, the shock of the cold might be enough to stop her heart.

 

She tapped the girl on the forehead. “Hey, Merrill. Stay with me here.”

 

Merrill’s pulse was languid, but there. “I think it’s snowing, Hawke.” She closed her eyes.

 

Hawke swore. Falling asleep now would be the worst thing that could happen to Merrill. Well, she’d already had one shock, Hawke thought. One more wouldn’t hurt.

 

She pressed her lips against Merrill’s. The girl was like ice.

 

It worked. Her eyes fluttered open. “Uh-”

  
“Hey, Merrill. Awake now?”

 

“Um. Yes. Did you just-”

 

Hawke looked away, her ears burning. The ice had faded from the girl. She found herself wondering whether that had been strictly necessary. “I had to wake you up.”

 

“Oh. Well, it worked. Thanks.”

 

As it turned out, the Tevinter slavers didn’t attack again that night. It took three days of searching before they found their cave and burned them out, and Merrill didn’t mention what had happened on top of the windmill, so Hawke didn’t either. It was a medical emergency, she told herself. Perfectly reasonable.

 

The second time was much better, naturally. It was more than a year after the incident on the windmill, and Hawke assumed Merrill had simply forgotten it. She could hardly blame her for that. It was a few months after the Keeper’s death and Varric was throwing a party. It was late- or early- and the Hanged Man was as empty but for them and a few drunkards around the bar.

 

“Alright, Rivaini. Angel of Death is down. You have to show.” The game had quietened down as more of them ran out of money, and only Isabela, Sebastian and Fenris were still playing. The table was too small and Anders and Fenris were all but rubbing shoulders, and Hawke kept a watchful eye on them. Of course, that also meant Merrill was forced to press close up against Hawke’s side, so she made no complaints.

 

Isabela smiled wickedly. “Three serpents.” She threw the cards down with a flourish.

 

Sebastian frowned. “Weren’t two serpents already played?”

 

“I don’t think so. Should we search the deck?” Isabela’s voice was perfectly innocent.

 

Varric sighed. “You aren’t supposed to point it out when other people cheat. Cheating is half the fun.”

 

Anders downed the last of a flagon of unidentifiable alcohol. “I’ve been watching Isabela all night-”

 

“I bet you have.”

 

“-and I didn’t see her cheat once. She’s either very innocent or very good.”

 

“Of course she is. I’m dealer for a reason. Return your cards.”

 

Sebastian threw his cards down beside Isabela’s. “I don’t see the point of a game where you aren’t meant to follow the rules.”

 

“Which is why you’ve lost so much coin, choir-boy.”

 

Sebastian snorted good-naturedly. “I suppose it is. If I slip back into my old ways-”

 

“We’ll all much prefer having you around.”

 

“And I’ll have you to blame.” He extricated himself awkwardly from the table. “I think that I’ll leave while I still have my honour.”

 

Fenris rose as well. “I’ll go with you. You play well, Isabela.”  


Isabela tried to stand, staggered, and recovered. “Oh, I’ll show you just how well I can play, elfy.”

 

“Alright, Rivaini, save it for the Rose. We have standards here at the Hanged Man.”

 

Hawke watched Fenris and Sebastian leave, stepping over happily sleeping patrons and a broken bar stool.

 

Merrill had all but fallen asleep on Hawke’s shoulder. “Are we finished? Did you win, Isabela?”

 

Isabela smiled lasciviously, still unsteady on her feet. How she could play so well while drinking more than any of them was beyond Hawke. “I did, Kitten. You really ought not to go all in so early, by the way.”

 

Merrill yawned. “Varric told me to do what no one was expecting. I surprised you all, didn’t I?”

 

Isabela laughed. “Yes, you did. Goodnight, you lot.”

 

The pirate followed Sebastian and Fenris out the door, and Varric tried to wake Aveline from where she lay slumped over the table.

 

Merrill stood and Hawke missed her immediately. She stretched like a cat. “Well, I ought to go too. Thank you for the party, Varric. It was very nice.”

 

Varric frowned. “Daisy, you can’t go walking alone through Lowtown at this time of night.”

 

A hint of annoyance showed in Merrill’s eyes. “I’ll be fine, Varric.”

 

“Remember what happened the last time we let you wander Lowtown alone?”

 

“Yes, but the elves were shooting at you, not me.”

 

Hawke looked at Merrill. Right now, the streets were actually much safer than they had been, as the templars had taken it upon themselves to wipe out any criminal gang known to have collaborated with apostates. Of course, the templars themselves were still a threat, but they were unlikely to be in Lowtown so late.

 

“It’s all right, Varric. Come on, Merrill, I’ll walk you out.”

 

They left Varric, Anders and Aveline at the table and headed into the cool night air. Hawke looked at Merrill. That giddy, moonstruck feeling she had felt in the sparring yard was back. Merrill turned to her and she reached up and kissed her.

 

Hawke felt like her heart was going to beat out of her chest. It was quite short, and Merrill turned her head at the wrong moment and her teeth clacked against Hawke’s, but Hawke couldn’t believe it. Merrill was kissing her.

 

Merrill pulled back, but she stayed in Hawke’s arms. She looked at Hawke, consternation in her eyes. “Was that all right, Hawke? It’s just, you kissed me, remember? And I was thinking about that and you were looking at me-”

 

“Merrill. It’s all right.”

 

Merrill let out a breath. “Ok. Good.” She stepped back, self-conscious. “What do we do now?”

 

In a little boat with black sails, slipping quietly out of the Kirkwall harbour, Hawke remembered those two moments. Behind her, the sky was scarred red, and bits of Chantry floated in the water. But all she thought of was the softness of Merrill's lips, the feel of her body pressed up against her, the way she had sighed when the ice hit her. She watched the vhenadahl fade from sight, just visible in the depression of the alienage. She wondered when she would return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i'm gonna skip forward a fair while from here on out which means theres no real canon from what happens here until hawke shows up in inquisition also thanks for reading so far also if anyone wants to be like a beta reader/ editor lemme know cos i don't have one


	8. the hero

Hawke had joked with Merrill about Ferelden once. She’d called it “one great puddle, with islands of dirt in between.” Amaranthine was one great puddle.

 

The heavy rain rolled in from the coast, sparkling prettily on the sea, then saturating the thatched city rooves and pooling in the gutters. The Fereldens clustered under eaves and awnings, resigned to wait for the heavens to close. Great drops plashed in the dirt by the port and ran down Merrill’s cloak.

 

Merrill waved to the captain who had taken her across the Waking Sea, barely visible through the fog. The Imperial Highway didn’t pass by Amaranthine, so it wasn’t the best place to land, but the only captain willing to take an elf was headed here and she hadn’t had enough coin to buy passage anywhere else. As it was, she had already spent most of the pouch Varric had given her.

 

She remembered when she had come to Kirkwall, riding in that stinking hold packed with halla and the other Dalish. This time, she had taken Isabela’s advice and stayed on the deck almost the entire time. She supposed it was more pleasant to be sick over the gunwale than in a barrel below decks.

 

She turned back to the city, pulling her cloak closer around her. She’d spent two months in Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion, but now she’d waited long enough and she could leave. There wasn’t anything to keep her in the city, now, and she’d done all the work she could do without help. So it had been easy to leave Kirkwall, but now that she was in Ferelden, she wondered what she was supposed to do. After Anders blew up the city, the templars had been out for his blood- there’d even been talk of an Exalted March- so Hawke had made plans to leave the city and she’d asked Merrill to come with her and Merrill had said no.

 

She still remembered the expression of confusion on her face that faded into hurt and then disappeared, replaced by a sardonic half-smile. Merrill had recognised that smile; it was the same one she had made when she saw that stitched-together corpse with her mother’s face. It was her _that’s ok_ _, who gives a shit_ look, the one she made when she was covering up how she felt.

  
“What’s the matter, got something more important to do?”

 

For the first time she could remember, she’d lied to Hawke. She told her the elves in the alienage needed her, that she still had responsibilities in the city. She’d lied to kind, sweet Hawke who hadn’t cared what the nobles thought when an elf moved in with her and had kissed her on the balcony-

 

Merrill caught herself. There was no point in dredging that up. Hawke couldn’t stay in Kirkwall and Merrill couldn’t tell her the truth and she couldn’t ask Hawke to come with her. She’d put her through so much already and Hawke deserved better. She'd helped her smash the mirror when the Keeper died, and she thought that Merrill had finally given up on it. And she had, of course, for about a year. In fact, she hadn’t even back to her hut until a few weeks before the Chantry exploded.

 

But then she had just wandered into her hut and the mirror was there, lying in pieces in the corner, and one of the shards had flashed electric blue. That was enough. That meant it could still work. Audacity was gone, so she didn’t need to fear being possessed. Merrill had put it out of her mind, but it was always there, and  when Hawke asked her to leave, she said no and stayed in Kirkwall and put the eluvian back together again. They hadn’t ended things- Hawke had promised to come back as soon as she could- but Merrill still felt like halla shit.

 

She put one hand inside her shirt, feeling for the thick yellow paper, the one letter Hawke had sent her, a few weeks after she left. Her words had been awkward, asking after her health and the city and not at all sounding like she had when they had been in Hightown together. Merrill hadn’t replied to it. She was such a coward.

 

It didn’t matter, she told herself. Think about the future. She’d have to hire a cart. It was a long way to the Brecilian Forest, and her cargo was big and awkward. This was the last attempt, she told herself. Audacity had told her once that old elven magic was needed to activate the eluvian, and the only place she could find that was the Forest. She watched two sailors carrying it off the ship, caught her breath when one of them slipped on the muddy path up from the docks.

 

Merrill followed the sailors up to the little tavern in the centre of the city. They put her crate leaning inside the stables and touched their foreheads at her. Merrill wondered what that meant- nine years in a human city hadn’t taught her as much as she would like- so she tried to copy the action, but the sailors were already heading back down to the port.

 

She turned to the tavern. That was what she was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Go to the tavern and put your arm on the bar and ask the bartender to tell you the latest rumours. That’s what Varric would do.

 

Thinking about Varric was bad too. He’d come to see her, sometimes, after Hawke had left, and she hadn’t even said a proper goodbye. And Isabela had found a ship and went back to pirating, and Fenris went off to hunt slavers, and Sebastian went back to Starkhaven to get his army. Kirkwall was lonely without all of them.

 

Merrill went into the tavern and put her dripping cloak on a hook. There was a bemused lion wearing a crown behind the bar and it was very loud and warm. Merrill sat at the bar and tried to get the bartenders attention, without success.

 

That was okay, Merrill thought. She didn’t really want to buy anything, after all. She just wanted somewhere to sit.

 

She found herself thinking about Anders. She’d been so happy, living in Hightown with Hawke, and he went and blew up Kirkwall and ruined it. Hawke hadn’t killed him, of course, they’d been too close for too long for that. She’d protected him from everyone, spirited him out of the city and made Merrill have to lie to her.

 

She knew she shouldn’t blame Hawke for that. Of course she’d stood by her friend. She’d done it for Merrill, even when she thought she was an idiot who was going to get her people killed. Even when she had.

 

“Oi.” The innkeeper looked like a bit surprised to see her, as if he hadn’t even noticed her sit down. Merrill decided not to tell him that. “What’ll you have?”

 

Merrill cleared her throat. “Er, a drink. The cheap one. Please.”

 

The innkeeper pushed a flagon over to her. “Slops. One bit.”

 

She felt in her pocket for her pouch and found one of the small bronze coins and put it on the bar, but the bartender wasn’t looking at her. A gust of air blew in behind Merrill from the opened door and the bartender bowed so low his head almost touched the floor.

 

“Arlessa!”

 

Some human noble, she thought. She wondered if she should bow as well, but she was sitting on a stool. Could you bow while sitting? Was it rude?

 

Then she heard something she never would have expected: a Dalish accent.

 

“Oh, hell. Please don’t bow, everyone.”

 

Merrill turned to look at the woman. Her hair was dark, like Merrill’s own, but longer and braided up behind her head. She carried a long sword and wore black chainmail under a leather surcoat and a heavy woolen cloak. Her vallaslin were faded under a heavy tan and a patchwork of scars, but there was no mistaking her.

 

The woman saw her looking. She saw recognition flash on her face, mixed with doubt and surprise. “Merrill?”

 

Merrill stood. “Aneth ara, Mahariel.”

 

Mahariel inclined her head. “It’s good to see you again.” Her voice was strong, but hoarse. It had been almost ten years since Merrill saw her last, but she seemed to have aged at least twice that. The teenager that had used to put sticks in her hair her she was studying with the Keeper was gone.

 

Mahariel looked around and sighed. Most of the patrons were still bowing. “I mean it, you lot. Get up.” The barman stood, sheepishly, and the rest of the people followed suit. Mahariel moved over to the bar and studied Merrill.

 

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

 

Merrill sat back on her stool. She wasn’t quite sure how to react to seeing the Warden. They’d been friends, but not particularly close. “We all thought you were dead for a while, you know. I’m glad you aren’t.” She indicated the other people in the bar. “Does this happen everywhere you go, now you’re the Hero of Ferelden?”

 

“No, not usually, but people know me here. I was actually supposed to be incognito. I didn’t think this part through.” The Warden studied her. “What are you doing here, Merrill? I heard some… disturbing rumours about Kirkwall. And I met an elf who said unsavoury things about you, actually. What happened?”

 

Merrill looked into her cup. What was she supposed to say? Her voice was very small. “Oh, Lena. The clan is gone. Most of them died. Hahren Paivel took the survivors away, I think.”

 

Mahariel let out a breath. “Ah.” She reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of dwarven whiskey. “Was it the mages?”

  
“A demon.” _Coward coward coward._

 

Mahariel looked at her, pity on her face. She poured the brandy and drank and poured again. “Well, to them, then.” She smiled grimly. “You know, a friend of mine once told me "The worst bit about being a Warden is that you get so good at seeing people you know die.” She drank again. “Doesn’t really help, though.”

 

Merrill didn’t want to talk about Kirkwall, about the elves and how they’d declared her a monster and even while she fought them Hawke was begging them to stop and their faces when they died.

 

“So, what are you doing in Amaranthine?” Mahariel seemed to realise she had no desire to talk about their clan.

 

“Travelling. The Brecilian Forest.”

 

“Back there? What’s in the forest for you?” Merrill wondered if she should tell Mahariel what she was planning. She might understand- she was Dalish, after all, surely she would realise the importance of reclaiming their history- but Merrill hadn’t even been able to keep Hawke around. Besides, Mahariel had been tainted by the very eluvian Merrill was transporting, and it had taken Tamlen from her. Looking at the dour Grey Warden, Merrill wouldn’t have put it past her to simply smash the eluvian as soon as she saw it.

 

She decided to keep things vague. “Oh, mage things.” Creators, she was bad at this. She hated keeping secrets.

 

Mahariel looked at her, but didn't pry. “Fair enough. I’m headed down to Redcliffe. We could travel together, if you like. At least to Lake Calenhad.”

 

Merrill knew she should refuse. All Mahariel would need to do was look in her crate, or hear what Merrill had done, and she'd turn on her. But she’d pushed Hawke away, and all her friends had seemingly gone with her. She wanted company.

 

“That’d be lovely. Have you got a cart?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look who it is  
> also i'm thinking i'll alternate between merrill and hawke from now on


	9. running

The little town outside Denerim still bore scars from the Blight. Hawke and Anders had sheltered for the night in the remnants of a burnt-out barn on the outskirts of the village, and as they headed into the town proper Hawke saw as many derelict ruins as a she did inhabited houses. All the same, the village was bustling with market-day activity, and a tall, obviously recent palisade ringed the larger houses.

 

“Keep your hood up.”

 

Anders looked at her balefully. He’d lost his staff when they fled from Kirkwall- the golden statue that had adorned it was far too distinctive to travel. In its place he carried a long ironwood branch and his clothes were muddy and weatherstained.

 

“Hawke, I escaped from the Circle enough times to know how to keep a low profile.”

 

“Well, maybe if you were better at it you wouldn’t have had to escape so much.”

 

Anders’ eyes flashed angrily at that, but they were approaching the gate and he held his tongue. Hawke wondered how long she would be able to keep this up. News of the explosion in Kirkwall had spread quickly, though it was as much rumour as fact. The only people who seemed to know the truth of what Anders had done in the city were the templars, and for the first few weeks Hawke had held her breath every time they saw that burning sword sigil. Before long, though, it was obvious that few templars actually knew what Anders looked like. They’d actually been able to stay put for a few weeks in a village in the Frostbacks.

 

And then a templar had come riding through the village, pinning Anders’ likeness on every vertical surface. They’d kept moving since then, but Hawke found herself wondering how long she could keep this up. It was only a matter of time before the wrong peasant got suspicious and they’d have to fight their way out.

  
“All right, Anders. Keep your head down, no magic, no talking. Same as always.”

 

She couldn’t see his face, but Hawke was sure he rolled his eyes. She moved forward, pushing past the flock of sheep and into the market square. The village was too small to have a Chantry- which was one of the reasons she’d decided to risk going in- but a little shrine was pressed up against the well in the village square, and a Chanter was singing over the buzz of haggling farmers.

 

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just.”

 

Hawke looked around sharply at that- it was the standard greeting Chanters used for templars, after all. But there were no greathelms or burning swords in the crowd, and she relaxed a little. The chanter was simply singing a canticle. Protecting Anders was damned hard work.

 

She moved over to the market stalls. Her boots were beginning to wear and she found some leather scraps and thread to repair them, as well as a little bag of flour and dried meat and fruit. The farmer grinned toothily at her when she paid him in coin rather than barter.

 

Hawke turned and looked for Anders. She had no desire to stay in the village any longer than necessary. But the crowd had grown dense and it was impossible to see him. Hawke swore under her breath.

 

She pushed out of the square and caught a flash of blonde hair disappearing into an alley. She followed the alley a short distance and, just for a moment, houses on either side were illuminated by a bright blue light.

 

That was a bad sign. Hawke turned a corner and saw Anders crouching over a little boy, barely five, his hands still glowing with blue light. There was an older boy with a dirty face behind him.

  
Anders stood. “Try not to use that arm for a few days. It’ll be sore, but as long as you don’t fall off any more ponies you’ll be all right.”

 

The boy nodded, his eyes wide. Anders grinned. His hood was down, Hawke saw. He pulled a coin from his belt and flicked it to the other boy. “Run along. And remember, did you see anyone?”

 

The boy shook his head.

  
“Good lad.”

 

The two boys pushed past Hawke and ran back out into the square without looking back.

 

Anders turned to her, pulling his hood back up. His eyes were defensive. “Justice sensed his pain, Hawke. I couldn’t refuse. He might have lost his arm.”

 

“Yes, yes, he’s very lucky you were here. Just like all the people in Kirkwall who got crushed under bits of Chantry.”

 

Anders’ voice was low, but his own anger showed through it. “I did what I had to, Hawke. If you had a problem with it, you would have let the templars take me.”

  
Despite everything, Hawke realised he was right. She’d left Kirkwall because the templars would have killed her for defending Anders. She’d left Merrill rather than let her friend- her friend who had destroyed her city- be killed for doing what he thought was right.

 

“All right, fine. Just… no more magic. Not so close to Denerim.”

 

Anders’ face was hard. “He won’t tell his parents. We’ll be fine, Hawke.”

 

Hawke shrugged. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before you blow up this village.”

  
Anders picked up his staff and they headed back out towards the square. As they neared the square, Hawke saw the little boy, wrapped in the arms of a man who must have been his father. The man was watching them as they left the alley.

 

Hawke saw his eyes widen. He turned to the Chanters’ board, at the poster of Anders glaring out at the people. Hawke realised that Anders’ hood was still down.

 

“Oh, hell.” Hawke shoved Anders backwards. “Come on. We’ll climb the palisade.”

 

Anders saw where she was looking. “He told his parents. Of course he did.”

 

The two of them headed back down the alley. Hawke saw the farmer’s eyes following them, saw him grab another man’s arm and say something. He wasn’t following them, though, so that was something.

 

The palisade was tall, but it had plenty of handholds where the branches had been trimmed. Anders pulled himself up first, then perched on the top while he waited for Hawke. She followed suit, pulling herself over the pointed wooden stakes and dropping down the other side. Anders dropped down beside her and Hawke got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  
The supplies she’d bought had slipped out of her belt while she climbed. Briefly, she entertained the thought of getting back over and grabbing them, but then she heard footsteps on the other side of the fence.

 

She signalled Anders and they moved away, jumping the little creek that wound around the village and making for the woods by the Imperial Highway. Once they were hidden in the trees, Hawke swore explosively.  
  
“Andraste’s-saggy-stinking-bloody- _tits!”_

 

She was hungry. Her boots had holes in them. And she was stuck in Ferelden with the wrong mage.

 

She hadn’t said anything. After all, she’d left Merrill, not the other way around, but it still ate at her. She knew it was arrogant, but she still felt it- Merrill had stayed for the _elves?_ The people that had ignored her, hated her, tried to kill her- and she stayed for them rather than be with Hawke. That had hurt her more than she cared to admit.

 

So, she took her anger out on Anders. “I swear by the Maker, Anders, if I hadn’t put so much work into keeping you alive-”

 

He forestalled her. “I didn’t ask you to come with me.”

 

“You didn’t give me much choice, did you? I couldn’t stay in Kirkwall!”

 

“You always have a choice, Hawke. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

 

She sighed, her anger gone as quickly as it had come. It was her own fault, she knew. If she’d been tougher, stood up to Anders like she should have, it would never have happened. She’d still be in Hightown and she’d be with Merrill. But now she was complicit in Anders’ crime. She hadn’t allowed the templars to kill him, but she couldn’t just let him go free- she had a duty to protect the people around him as much as she did him. Why hadn’t Merrill understood that? She wanted nothing more than to go back to Kirkwall, but here she was, traipsing around Ferelden without any idea for when she could be free of the mage she’d shackled herself to.

 

Anders’ face softened. “For what it’s worth, Hawke, I’m not proud of what I did. And I appreciate you watching my back.”

 

Hawke looked away, ashamed of her outburst. “Yeah, well, say that again when we die of starvation in the Korcari Wilds.”

 

Anders snorted. “You aren’t that bad a hunter. We’ll be all right.” He started moving towards the Highway.

 

Hawke shook her head. “Anders, we’ll have to stay off the road for a while. This way.” She picked a path through the woods, hissing when a stick went through the hole in her boot.

 

They travelled parallel to the highway for most of the day. The woods were sparse and fairly easy going, but they had to keep the highway in their sight whenever possible, which meant that whenever she heard a caravan rolling along the stone causeway they had to drop down and hide until it was out of eyesight.

 

That made the going slow, but given what had happened that morning Hawke felt it was worth it. They could take the highway again in a few days but until she was sure there were no templars on their trail, she was sticking to the woods.

 

They camped in a little dell where she could light a small fire under the brush to dissipate the smoke. Hawke had seen a few nugs wandering the forest as they travelled and she laid makeshift snares around the camp, hoping for something for breakfast. She cooked the last of their flour on the little fire and Anders found some herbs which he swore weren’t poisonous, which made for a meagre supper.

 

The two of them lay around the fire. Hawke’s belly rumbled and she told herself that in the morning she would feast on roasted nug.

 

They were discussing where to head next, as had become their custom at night.

 

“Why not go to Orzammar? The dwarves would probably love you.”

 

Anders sniffed. “I’d bump my head on all the doorframes. We could try Tevinter.”

 

“Fenris would kill me if he found out I got you asylum in Tevinter. Besides, they have the silliest robes. Remember Danarius?”

 

“Oh, right.” Anders was silent for a while. “Well, what about the Fade? I hear the Black City is lovely this time of year.”

 

“Maker, you actually are a magister, aren’t you? I knew all that “suffering apostate” shit was a cover.”

 

Anders actually laughed at that. Hawke felt a little guilty. It was so easy to forget what had happened in Kirkwall. It was so far away and her friend was laughing and looked nothing like the abomination that had tried to destroy her city.

 

She put that out of her mind. Guilt was an emotion for the morning. She was actually drifting off to sleep, ignoring the pangs in her belly, when Anders sat up. “Hawke. You said you saw nugs on the way here?”

 

Hawke’s mind was thick, fuzzy with sleep. “Yes. We’re going to eat them for breakfast.”

 

Anders stood, his eyes wary. His knuckles were white on his staff. “You can’t hear the song, can you? No, of course you can’t.”

 

His fear was obvious and that was enough for Hawke. She got up, rubbing her eyes. “Song? What are you talking about?”

 

He looked at her. “Nugs live underground, Hawke. They only appear near entrances to the Deep Roads. We need to leave.”

 

A rattling screech rose over the trees, the same sound Hawke had heard a thousand times when they journeyed through the Deep Roads. She stamped out the coals of the fire. “Do you think they’ll catch our scent?”

 

Anders’ face was grim. “They won’t need to. If I can sense them, they can sense me. We need to move- quickly.”

 

They packed up camp in the light of the half moon and made back for the highway. Templars would only take them prisoner, hopefully. Darkspawn were unlikely to be so kind.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Merrill’s feet dangled off the edge of the cart, brushing against the overgrown grass. She was watching the trees. Varric had told her the Trade names of many of the birds in Ferelden and the Free Marches and she was trying to match them with the elvish name-lists the Keeper had made her memorise.

  
Mahariel was riding up on the seat by the front of the cart. She’d invited Merrill to sit by her, but she liked watching the world go by backwards, and she wanted to keep her back pressed against her crate to make sure it stayed on the cart.

 

“Hey, Merrill.” The Warden’s voice was musical and calm, far more at ease than she’d been in Amaranthine. “Did you meet any Wardens while you were in Kirkwall?”

 

Merrill took a moment to respond. That was a blue-vested brown-noser, according to Varric, and a dir-alemmen, according to the Keeper. “We did, actually. There was one who we met in the Deep Roads, and another who was there when the qunari attacked. Oh, and there was Anders, of course, but he didn’t really count because he quit.”

 

There was a note of surprise in Mahariel’s voice. “Were you close with him?”

 

“Hawke was. He taught me a lot, but I don’t think he liked me. Because I was a blood mage.” Merrill kicked herself. Mahariel didn’t know that, didn’t need to know that. She was such a fool.

 

There was quite a long pause. “Ah. Well, that does tend to turn people against you.”

 

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe.” She hadn’t kicked her off the cart, which was nice. There was a white bird in the trees, which she thought was a frilled huckster in Trade and she couldn’t remember the elvhen name for.

 

“I’m surprised he bonded with Justice, actually. They really didn’t get on that well when I knew them.”

 

“They didn’t get on particularly well in Kirkwall,” Merrill said under her breath, then she felt bad. Anders hadn’t done anything worse than she had, after all.

 

Mahariel seemed not to hear her. “I rather liked Justice, back when he was walking around in a corpse. He did smell, though.”

 

“I met it once in the Fade. He was very… cross.” Merrill leant back onto a blanket in the back of the cart, then sat up quickly when she felt a leathery tongue lick her ear. “What was that?”

 

Mahariel laughed. “I see you’ve met my dog.”

 

A big nose pushed out from under the blanket behind her and snuffled Merrill’s hand, then a massive, war-painted mabari hound leapt out and sat up opposite her. His gaze was very serious.

 

Merrill rubbed her elbow where she’d hit it as she sat up. “What’s his name?”

  
“Before I tell you, you have to know it wasn’t my idea. I was going to name him but then Alistair said it and now he won’t respond to anything else-”

 

“What is it?”

 

Mahariel sighed. “Mabariel,” she said, her voice very small.

 

Merrill giggled. “That’s a perfect name!” She looked back at the dog, met his liquid eyes. “Aneth ara, Mabariel.”

 

“Shut up.” The dog, apparently declaring her of no more interest, pricked up his ears and leapt up onto the drivers seat beside his master, resting his head in her lap.

 

The cart rounded a bend in the road and Merrill heard Mahariel draw in her breath sharply. She stood up on the footboard of the cart to look over her head.

  
There were two templars sitting in the grass on either side of the road, about fifty metres ahead. They rose as the cart approached and one put out his hand out to stop them.

 

Merrill met Mahariel’s eyes. They should have heard them. They had been talking too loudly, too at ease on the road.

 

Mahariel spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Let me handle this, Merrill. Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Merrill thought quickly. If the templars in Kirkwall were anything to go by, just being a mage would be enough to get her killed. But Aveline had told her she was married to a templar, so they couldn’t be all that bad. Of course, if they opened her box, she doubted she’d be able to leave without killing them.

 

The first templar approached the cart. His greathelm made his voice echo. “What is your business ‘ere?” His accent was strange, a little like the nobility in Kirkwall.

 

Mahariel spoke, but her Dalish accent was gone and her voice was nasal and reedy. “Travellers. From Val Royeaux, headed to Lothering.”

 

The templar’s voice was doubtful. “Lothering? There is no alienage is Lothering, I think.”

 

Mahariel’s voice cut like a whip. “We are not from an alienage, templar.” She rummaged in an inner pocket of her coat, pulling out a scroll that she held up for him to see. “We are emissaries of the Most Holy to the Lothering Chantry.”

 

The templar didn’t move. One of his companions stood and removed his helm. His hair was receding and his face was lined with age. He took the scroll from Mahariel and studied the seal- a bird in red wax.

 

The other templar sniffed. “Sister Nightingale. Of course.”

 

Mahariel’s voice was imperious. She put her nose in the air, which Merrill thought looked rather silly, but the templars seemed impressed. “Our errand is urgent. We cannot afford delay.” Her dog punctuated her words with a deep growl.

 

The helmeted templar rested his hand on his sword. He spoke to the other templar in a quick, reedy tongue that sounded like he had a blocked nose.

  
The other templar responded in kind, his voice quiet and fierce. Merrill didn’t understand the words, but his meaning was obvious. The helmet grunted angrily and stepped back, though he kept his hand on his sword.

 

The balding templar addressed himself to Mahariel. “Well, you are hardly the apostate we are searching for, hrmm? I apologise for my colleague. Zealotry in service is no sin, but,” he sighed, “it must be tempered with wisdom.” Merrill looked at the helmeted templar. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt his gaze on her, and she didn’t like it.

 

The other templar gave the scroll back to Mahariel without opening it. “Be on your way, miss. Take care on the roads.” He bowed.

 

Mahariel snapped the reins and set her horse walking. Merrill couldn’t believe it. They weren’t even going to search the cart. She got up and sat beside Mahariel on the riding board, not wanting to have to stare at the templars until they rounded the next bend.

 

Once they were out of earshot, Mahariel let out a breath. “That was unexpected.”

 

Merrill let out a nervous laugh. Creators, she was lucky to have found her. “I was sure they would search us. Since when did you work for the Divine?”

 

“I don’t. Leliana gave me that seal when I told her I’d be travelling through Orlais. You can barely buy a loaf of bread over there without some noble’s permission.” She paused, frowning. “I wasn’t sure it would work, even on Orlesian templars. To disrespect Sister Nightingale- well, the Chantry isn’t what it was.”

 

That rather flew over Merrill’s head- she’d never particularly cared for the affairs of the Chantry. She sympathised with Anders’ cause, but given his explosion had been the reason she’d had to leave Hawke, she felt little pity for him. There was a monocrested quillwobbler in the treetops.

 

“Who do you think they were hunting?”

 

Mahariel shrugged. “Once word gets out about Kirkwall, I’d guess that just about every Circle will have a few escape attempts. You’ll have to be careful.”

 

Ahead of them, the forest faded away into orderly farms and meadows. The road wound between big, sprawling houses on top of the hills and in the distance Merrill saw a tall, thin tower out on a glittering blue expanse.

 

 


	10. the elvhen

The rising sun cast a flat light over the Imperial Highway. Hawke picked her way through their little battlefield, genlocks and hurlocks scattered over the road. They’d been lucky. The raised stones of the Highway had forced the darkspawn to group up when they came screeching out of the woods, and Anders’ magic had taken a terrible toll. Without a blight and an archdemon to lead them, the darkspawn were mindless, animalistically vicious, but not a real threat. Even so, facing the monsters in a land barely thirty leagues from Lothering brought back unpleasant memories.

 

Hawke knelt and slit a hurlock throat, just to be sure. She doubted any of them were intelligent enough to play dead, but she had no intention of turning into a ghoul.

 

Anders clicked his fingers and the pile of darkspawn corpses caught alight. He gave an uneasy smile. “Darkspawn. What was I thinking, becoming a Warden?”

 

Hawke stood half-rolled, half-dragged the hurlock whose throat she’d cut over to Anders to join the greasy flames. “Maybe you were thinking, “I don’t want to get my face stamped and get all my thoughts taken away?” A thought struck her. “We could try asking them to take you back, you know. They gave you asylum once. Would they do it again?”

 

Anders turned to face the rising sun. “They only took me in when I fled from the Circle because of Mahariel. I hadn’t killed anyone, and I still got a templar to watch over me. And I don’t think even they could help me now.”

 

Hawke sighed. Of course not. If they went to the Wardens, they’d probably get handed over to the Chantry. Besides, crimes committed after the Joining didn’t count in the absolution the Wardens granted. The list of places she could take Anders grew shorter by the day.

 

“We should get under way. There’ll be people moving along the highway before long.”

 

“Looks like rain. We should stay and make sure the corpses burn properly.” Even darkspawn corpses carried the taint, and burning them was the established Grey Warden protocol. It seemed even after nine years away from the Order Anders remembered more of his duty than he wished.

 

“Well, you’re welcome to do that. Maybe the templars will apologise after they kill you.”

 

Anders sighed. He shoved his palm violently at the pile of corpses and the fire roared up. “All right. I suppose this is the best we can do.”

 

Hawke shouldered her bag and set a quick pace south. Anders was silent, as he often was when they were walking.

 

Unbidden, her thoughts went back across the Waking Sea. She wondered how Varric was and whether Isabela had ever found her ship. She’d sent letters back to the city before they went into the Frostbacks, to all of them- even to Starkhaven. Isabela had sent her a short, scrawled note with a stain that might have been wine or blood, and Aveline had given her an appraisal of the state of the city, but in truth they had raised more worries than they soothed. Because if she got letters from them, then she could have got letters from the others, and that meant that Merrill hadn’t written because she either didn’t want to or couldn’t. And Hawke wasn’t sure which was worse.

 

Hawke was jolted out of her thoughts by Anders’ hand on her arm. She looked at him and he jerked his head down the highway. The highway stretched away south and west, and the sunlight cast a golden glow over the fields. In the distance, barely visible, was a little plume of grey smoke, barely visible in the dawn haze.

 

“A campfire. Has to be.”

 

Hawke strained her eyes. “Well, they’re ahead of us. And we don’t even know if the templars are after us yet. It’s probably just a merchant caravan.” She scanned the lands off to either side of the highway. Nothing but rolling fields of wheat, with only a few scattered trees- not near enough to hide them. “There isn’t enough cover to go around them. We’d look mad, walking through the field instead of along the highway.”

 

“So we’ll go through them. A pair of travellers on the highway, that’s not so unusual.”

 

Hawke sighed. Since they’d left the Frostbacks, she’d done her best to avoid being seen by casual travellers. She knew it was unlikely that they’d recognise either of them, but given what Anders had managed just in one town, she had no desire to encounter more people who might tell the templars about them. If the templars were even after them, that was.

 

But there was nothing for it. “Hood up, Anders. And give me your staff.”

 

“Hawke-”

  
“No arguing, Anders. Staff.”

 

Anders grumbled, but he handed it over. Hawke pushed her own hood back off her face and held the staff like a walking stick. Anders, in his deep hood and feathered cape, looked like a hedge mage right down to his muddy boots. But most templars would look for a staff, and hopefully no further. And while Hawke might look like a common brigand with a club, no one would accuse her of having magic. And taking his staff had the added benefit of preventing Anders from using his more noticeable magic.

 

The smoke was a long way down the highway and the sun was fully in the sky before the caravan was in sight, set in a circle on the field by the highway. They were strange, angled and segmented like seashells.

 

Hawke studied them as they moved closer, trying to think of where she had seen that shape before. Then it clicked- it wasn’t a merchant convoy. It was a Dalish clan.

 

She watched the elves as they passed them by on the highway. Hawke supposed it was a blessing- Dalish were hardly likely to talk to the templars, after all. But seeing the aravels and the halla brought back memories she’d done her best to forget.

 

Most of the elves were sitting around their fire, though some had already moved to the halla pens and were harnessing the beasts to their aravels. There were four hunters on the steps up to the highway, armed with short bows and round wooden shields. They were watching Hawke and Anders and there were arrows on their bows.

 

Hawke nodded to the hunters, but they didn’t respond. She and Anders passed the first aravel and Hawke was just beginning to think that the Dalish would let them pass unmolested when a young elf stood up from beside the fire and looked directly at her. His eyes were terrible.

  
Whispers rustled like leaves in the wind. One by one, the other elves stood as well. Hawke saw an elf pull a long leaf-bladed sword from an aravel and hold it against his leg, saw another taking a group of elf children and shepherding them behind another aravel. She turned to Anders. Could they have recognised him? His hood was still up and his face was wrapped in shadow.

 

Then she realised that the Dalish weren’t looking at him. They were looking at her.

 

An old elf was the last to rise. He leant on a staff and he took the arm of the first elf as he walked, up the stairs of the highway. The hunters moved aside to let him pass and then formed up behind him and the young elf.

  
The old elf looked at Hawke, his eyes searching. The young elf stood beside him. He had no vallaslin, Hawke noticed.

  
“Is this her, Anril?”

 

The young elf’s eyes were poisonous, but the old elf leaning on him kept him from moving. “This is her, Keeper.”

 

The old elf sighed. “Serah Hawke, correct?”

 

“Yes. Who’s asking?”

 

“I am Paren, Keeper of this clan. I fear that you are not welcome among us.”

 

Hawke looked at the Keeper. Please, she thought, please don’t make me do this again. “We’re just passing through. We won’t trouble you.”

 

Anril shoved the Keeper’s arm off him and stepped forward, very close to Hawke. “Do you even remember me? Do you remember any of us?”

 

“I remember you.” Hawke met his eyes squarely. “You were in Merrill’s clan. I let you go.”

 

“Let me _go?_ You slaughtered our clan!”

 

“I know.” Hawke’s face twisted in a bitter smile. “I don't recall you giving me much choice.”

 

The Keeper raised a hand. “Anril has told us the story. You aided a demon and killed our people.” His voice was stony, regal, but his eyes were sad. “There is only one punishment for this crime.”

Hawke wondered what to do. At the Keeper’s words, two of the hunters had drawn their bows back and the broadhead arrows were pointed at her chest. At this range, she’d be skewered before she even drew her knives.

 

She felt Anders’ eyes burning a hole in the back of her head. He hadn’t been there when she’d fought Audacity, and she didn’t think Varric or Aveline had told anyone precisely what had happened on Sundermount when they left the cave. It had affected Merrill immensely, of course, but after everything that happened in the city the fate of a single Dalish clan went mostly overlooked. But now he knew just what she’d done to protect Merrill and Hawke could imagine what his thoughts were. _Hypocrite_.

  
“They would have killed me. And the elf I was with.”

 

Anril spat at her feet. “The Keeper’s murderer! The witch who conspired with a demon!” There would be no pity for her here, Hawke realised. She needed another tactic.

 

She met the Keeper’s eyes. “Do you really want to do this? How often does taking vengeance on humans work for you?”

 

“You suggest that we allow your crime to go unpunished?” The cloud passed over the sun and a bead of sweat formed on Hawke’s brow, but she resisted the temptation to wipe it away. She had to seem perfectly calm and unafraid.

 

“I already killed one clan, Keeper. Do you think I won’t kill another?” That was bluster. If the clan hadn’t threatened Merrill, Hawke would have gladly surrendered to avoid bloodshed. But if she could convince these elves that trying to kill her would cost them more elvhen lives, they might decide it wasn’t worth it. She played her trump card.

 

“If you have one of the elves from Kirkwall with you, you know what happened to the city.” She stepped back and signalled to Anders to remove his hood. “And you know of the Abomination of Kirkwall. So, do you really want to do this?” She nudged Anders in the side. He looked at her, unsure, and she nodded and gave him his staff.

 

His skin cracked and bright blue flame flared along his veins, shining through his skin like parchment. There was a smell of sulfur and the air crackled with electricity.

 

“Let us pass, little elves.” His voice was distorted, surreal, and as he spoke his eyes flared and the iron arrowheads pointing at her chest flared red, then melted into slurry.

 

One of the hunters let out an exclamation in elvish. Hawke recognised it- a prayer to the elvhen gods for protection from the Dread Wolf. He stepped back, speaking in his quick, musical tongue to the Keeper.

 

The Keeper raised a hand. “I will not destroy my people to end you, Serah Hawke. You may pass.” Hawke let out a breath.

  
“Keeper! You cannot-”

 

“More death will not avenge your clan, Anril.” He turned and spoke quickly in elvish to the hunters, and they stepped back and off the highway. Anril turned his venomous gaze on Hawke again, but the Keeper put his hand on his arm and he turned to follow the hunters.

 

The Keeper stepped closer and spoke quietly to Hawke. She got the sense that he hadn’t bought her threats, but he had called off his archers all the same.“You claim that you acted in defense of another elf. Anril did not tell us this. If it is true, then your crime may not be so great as we thought. Clans which have lost their Keeper have committed terrible acts in the past.”

 

Hawke opened her mouth, but the Keeper cut her off. “If you would clear your name, there will soon be an arlathvhen in Halamshiral. Present yourself there and beg forgiveness from the Keepers."

 

Hawke frowned. “They won’t just kill me on sight?”

 

“Would that be justice?” He took Hawke’s silence as an answer. “I cannot force you to go. But I can promise that you will not be killed out of hand.” 

 

"So I just show up to the arlathvhen and say I'm sorry and then we'd all dance in the meadow?"

 

"No. But we are not fools, Champion. There is much you could do for the Dalish, if you were so inclined." He stepped back. “Be on your way. I suggest you try to avoid the Dalish in the future. Not all Keepers are so trusting as I.”

 

Hawke felt the Keeper’s eyes on her as they left. He was mad if he thought she would willingly give herself up to the elves for defending herself. But all the same, it niggled at her. After everything that had happened, to know that she'd mended at least one of her mistakes would be a pleasant change. But to throw everything aside just to put aside her guilt about the elves? That was a hell of an ask.

 

The elves watched them until the road passed behind a hill and they were out of sight. Hawke was shaky with adrenaline. She’d honestly expected the elves to attack, and she wasn’t sure what she’d have done if they had. She turned to Anders. The blue glow had faded from his skin and there was a strange expression on his face.

 

She knew what he was thinking. “I’m not doing it, Anders.”

 

“I didn’t say you should.”

 

“You were thinking it, though. You think I should go and ‘beg forgiveness.”

 

Anders looked ahead, watching the road as it twisted away before them. “When I was only Anders, I would have told you to forget the Dalish. They threatened you and you killed them. That’s fair. But now...”

 

“The glowing hitchhiker has an opinion?”

 

“The hitchhiker who just saved our lives. But we both do. If there was anyone who could offer me forgiveness for what I’ve done- do you think I wouldn’t already be there?”

 

"You sound like Sebastian."

Anders snorted. "Perhaps I do. But that doesn't make me wrong."

 

Hawke was a little bemused. "Even if I wanted to be best friends with every elf in Thedas, I'm a little preoccupied right now, Anders."

 

"I know. I'd come with you, of course. You'll need me to make sure they don't all shoot you." He let out a breath. "Besides, whatever else there'll be, I doubt any templars would get invited to an arlathvhen."

 


	11. mahariel

The Circle tower gave Merrill the shivers. It wasn’t as ugly as the Gallows, with its bronze people glaring down from the walls, but it jutted out of the surface of the lake like a sore thumb and she started to understand why Anders had been so keen to leave. She’d never learnt to swim and the thought of being stuck on that little bit of dirt made her thank the Creators the Dalish had found a place for her.

 

The road followed the lake from its northernmost point down and around to Redcliffe and then all the way to Haven, according to Mahariel. Merrill was ashamed to admit it, but she’d forgotten more than she remembered of the Keeper’s lessons on Ferelden geography. They’d left the cart a little way outside the docks, with Mahariel’s dog to watch over it.

 

The inn- Mahariel called it the Spoiled Princess- was smaller than the one in Amaranthine and much more empty. There were six or seven Fereldens with straw hats at the centre table and a pair of templars by the door, but other than that the taproom was empty. It smelled awfully like the Hanged Man and Merrill felt an unexpected pang of homesickness. She shook it from her- she’d never even liked the Hanged Man that much. It was dirty and full of broken glass. But the smell brought back thoughts of Varric and Isabela and that little courtyard where Hawke used to kiss her sometimes.

 

She sat at a table by the corner and tried not to think of that. Mahariel had haggled the innkeeper for a meal for them both and she brought back two trenchers of bread and a thin vegetable stew.

  
“Alistair used to say Ferelden cooking involves throwing everything in a pot and mushing it until you forget what it was.” She sat down. “I’ve eaten with the queen, and I’m afraid it doesn’t get a whole lot better than this.”

 

Merrill shrugged. After two days of hard bread and dried meat, she was happy.  
  
She was halfway through her stew when the door when Mahariel spoke again. “The innkeeper says there’s a clan in the area. Clan Lavellan.”

  
Merrill did her best to keep her face neutral, but she wasn’t sure if it worked. “What are they doing here?”

 

“Heading over the mountains to the arlathvhen, I expect.” Mahariel fixed her with a stare. “You knew about that, didn’t you?”

 

“Someone mentioned it back in Kirkwall.”

 

“Every Dalish is expected to be there, you know.”

 

“I know.” Merrill shifted in her seat. Mahariel hadn’t pried when she offered to travel with Merrill, but she could see that she was curious why Merrill was lugging a great big crate around Ferelden. She wondered what to tell her. “Are you going to go?”

 

“No, I have more pressing concerns. But why aren’t you going? There are usually elves in the Brecilian Forest. I assumed you were going there to see them.”

 

She was obviously curious. Merrill decided to risk telling her a little more. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m not very popular amongst the Dalish.” Mahariel gave her a questioning look and she continued. “I got exiled just after we arrived in Kirkwall.”

Mahariel let out a breath. “Whew. What did you do?”

 

Merrill wondered how to go about telling her. Mahariel had been nothing but kind to her since they’d met, and she needed her help to get to the Brecilian Forest. “Mahariel, remember when we went to find Tamlen? That mirror the Grey Warden shattered?”

 

Mahariel looked at her, her eyes hard. “The one that stole Tamlen? Yes, I remember that.”

 

This was going to be bad. “Well, I went back and got the eluvian. It’s in our cart now.”

 

“Creators, Merrill. Are you joking?”

 

Merrill fiddled with her spoon. “No, it’s in my box. I fixed it, mostly.” Neither of them spoke. Merrill tried to guess what Mahariel was thinking.

 

“What the hell were you thinking?” There was anger in her voice, but it was mixed with something else- she seemed resigned, as though nothing surprised her any more.

 

Even so, the question brought back old memories of the Keeper, how she’d been so sure she would fail. But Mahariel had better cause than anyone to distrust the eluvian. “It’s part of our history. I thought if I could fix it, it would be good for the People. They, um, they didn’t agree.”

 

Mahariel let out a strained laugh. “Yes, I’d expect not. How did you get rid of the taint?”

 

That she couldn’t tell her. Mahariel seemed willing to put what had happened with Tamlen behind her, but if she knew that the Keeper had died to stop her from fixing the mirror, that her clan had tried to kill her, Merrill doubted that she’d be so kind. “Magic. And I had a lot of help.”

 

“From who? The Champion? Anders?”

 

Merrill snorted. “No, not from Anders. He didn’t like the idea of old elvish magic.” That wasn’t strictly true- it was the blood that Anders had disagreed with, not the elvishness, but there was nothing else for it.”

 

Mahariel sat back and looked at her, her eyes critical. “And that’s why you’re going to the ruins? To put the mirror back?”

 

“Yes. It still isn’t fixed properly. I’m hoping that the ruins will have something to tell me how to make it work.”

  
“Speaking from experience, elvhen ruins aren’t the kind of place you can just wander around.”

 

“I know. But I’ve got the most dangerous thing we found in the back of our cart. I don’t think there’ll be anything worse.”

 

“You’d be surprised.” Mahariel picked up her bowl and drained it. “I’ll come with you to the Forest, naturally.”

 

That threw Merrill. She’d hoped that Mahariel would be kind enough to lend her the cart when they parted ways, and hopefully not try to destroy her eluvian in anger at what it had done to her. She hadn’t dreamed that she’d want to help her.

 

“Look, Merrill, you trusted me with your secret. It’d be rude not to trust you with mine.” She paused. “I’m looking for a cure for the taint. And you just told me you figured out a way to remove it.”

 

“From a bit of glass! Not from a person!”

 

Mahariel shrugged. “I was only going to Redcliffe to see if they had anything in the library about this. If you can cure it, then,” she shrugged, “problem solved.”

 

“Mahariel, I’ve never even attempted something like that.”

 

“Of course not. You’ll have to tell me more about how you did it. I met a mage once named Avernus who was able to slow the taint with magic, but he had tower of blood slaves to draw off.” She looked at her sharply. “You mentioned blood magic earlier. Did you ever-”

 

“No, Mahariel. My own blood. No one else’s.” Hawke had offered once. It was a few weeks after they’d dealt with the varterral and she’d just returned to the eluvian, despite Hawke’s best efforts to distract her. The Champion had just showed up at her door one day and she’d noticed the blood in her ritual bowl and offered to let her use her instead. She’d laughed that easy laugh and said “Everyone else wants to cut me open anyway. Why not you too?”

 

Merrill had pretended she was joking and she’d avoided working on the mirror until Hawke had left, and she hadn’t told her how sick that made her feel because Hawke was the kind of friend who _would_ cut herself open if it helped Merrill.

 

“Well, that’s something. Anyway, we should probably get going soon. This isn’t a conversation to have around,” she gestured to the templars in the corner, “our more zealous friends. Come on.”

 

As they left the inn Merrill found her thoughts drifting back to Hawke. She hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but being around the Champion was difficult. It made her unsure. When it was just her, all she had to think about was the eluvian. She could make sacrifices, lose herself in the mirror, because it would all be worth it once it was fixed. But when Hawke was there it was like she lost that sense of assurance. That was why she’d avoided the eluvian when they were together- she couldn’t work properly on it when she was constantly wondering what Hawke would think.

 

And it was why she’d refused to go with her, even though she knew Hawke would have cheerfully followed her into the Black City if she’d asked her. That was what ate at her when Mahariel was sleeping in the back of the cart and the road was quiet.

 

The Brecilian Forest, she told herself. Once the mirror was back in its place it would start working, because if it didn’t she had no idea what else she could do. And once it was working she could leave directions for the next clan to pass through the forest to find it and then she would go find Hawke.

 

“Let’s go, Merrill.” Mahariel was already half-shrouded in the darkness out on the path.

 

Merrill followed the Warden up the path. She’d expected the Warden to be furious with her. It almost seemed wrong for her to simply take her explanation and move on. Merrill was still dealing with the guilt from what she’d done, and yet Mahariel had just brushed it off. And she’d accepted her blood magic without blinking. It was a pleasant change, but Merrill wondered what had happened her to make her so resigned.

 

And there was another problem. Cleansing the eluvian had cost her everything. Her blood, her clan, even Hawke, she’d put it all into the eluvian. The spell Audacity had taught her was expensive, and Mahariel wanted her to cast it on her? Merrill didn’t know the first thing about magical healing. How much blood would it cost to cleanse the blight from a person?

 


	12. The Seeker

The man lay in the dirt. Autumn leaves turned the road golden and his blood was a sticky pool of crimson amongst them. Around him clustered six or seven men and women, all in weatherbeaten furs and skins. Two mabari hounds stood guard with them and their muzzles were soaked with blood.

Hawke and Anders came upon them without warning. The forest here in the far-eastern Bannorn was deep and winding and the road little more than a deer track, so they were barely fifty metres away when they came into view.

For a moment, the two groups simply stood and watched each other. Then, the biggest of the men, wielding a mace and a waraxe in either hand, turned to face them and called in a heavy Ferelden accent. 

"This is a toll road, friends. All who pass here pay their due, in gold," he pointed with his bloodied mace at the corpse in the road, "or iron. Which will it be?"

Hawke sighed inwardly. Wiping out bandits was her bread and butter, normally, but as fugitives they were much safer paying the man what little coin they had and going on their way. They'd have to kill every last one to avoid making themselves noticed. These bandits had most likely been making a nusiance of themselves for months and for them to simply disappear would generate far too many rumours for her liking.

But the decision was taken from her. There were downsides to travelling with a spirit of Justice.

Anders didn't waste time parleying with the bandits. His skin glowed and cracked and a gobbet of flame arced into the group. Hawke heard a great  _whump_  and the bandits fairly flew through the air.

Only the lead bandit kept his feet, and he screamed as his fur coat blazed merrily. At least two bandits died when they struck the ground, and the others rolled frantically on the ground, trying to extinguish the greasy flames.

Hawke drew her knives and rushed the leader. He ripped the cloak off as she approached and threw it down. He swung at her with the mace but she ducked and cut back, opening a red line along his arm.

One of the mabaris leapt at her and she twisted, ramming her dagger up behind its gnashing teeth. She saw the other freeze mid-leap as a mass of ice coalesced around it.

An angry burn marred the man's face and a gurgling scream came from his throat. He cut at her again with the waraxe, then followed with the mace. Hawke stepped close. The mace missed her by millimetres. She wove around a vicious jab with the pommel of the mace and he was too slow and now she was behind him.

The man let out a sigh as he died. The other bandits were quick to break after that, fleeing into the forest to the north. Hawke briefly considered pursuing them, but the bandits knew this territory far better than she, and it was entirely possible that a larger group could be lying in wait.

She watched the last bandit, a girl no older than nineteen, leap up and follow her compatriots into the forest. The frozen mabari followed her, tail still hung with icicles, and Hawke turned and gestured to Anders to come down and meet her.

The mage was shaky. "What the hell was that?"

Hawke looked at him closely. She'd fought with him many times, and normally he and Justice worked in tandem, equally in control of his magic. But occasionally the spirit wluld assume direct control, and then Anders tended to have trouble remembering precisely how the fight had gone. She thought uneasily of the mage she'd stopped him from murdering, long ago in Kirkwall.

"Let's say your spiritual friend could use a few lessons in tact." 

Anders met her eyes, his face troubled. "It's been happening more, hasn't it? Even back in Kirkwall, Justice only took over when I was truly angry. Never like this."

"Remember how you told me you were trying to make a potion to separate you two, and that was a stinking lie? Regret that yet?"

"You know I do." There was some real pain on his face, Hawke saw, and that troubled her far more than his usual anger. 

But she didn't intend to stop bringing it up. Anders should be ashamed of what he'd done. He didn't deserve death- or at least, Hawke couldn't bring herself to kill one of her closest friends, which was more cowardice than justice- but that didn't mean she'd forgiven him. It worried her that she had to keep reminding herself of that.

Hawke turned to the man the bandits had killed, putting those thoughts out of her mind.

He was of middling age, but that was hard to judge because of the mess the mace had made of his face. He wore chain armour and a surcoat with a strange insignia- an open eye surrounded by a corona of light. A heavy shield lay nearby with the same sigil and he wore a long scabbard, but his sword was nowhere to be seen.

Hawke gestured to the shield. "You recognise that?"

Anders frowned. "I've seen it before, I'm sre. Maybe in the Circle. Perhaps a Ferelden nobleman?"

Hawke shook her head. "The Bannorn are all dogs and trees. That's no Ferelden insignia." She knelt and examined the knapsack at the small of the man's back. The bandits had gone through it, but it was only papers and some dried food. She opened them. A map of Ferelden. A letter from someone named Cassandra. A dispatch case.

She scanned the letter. It was long and in a script she wasn't familiar with, though she recognised a few words Isabela had used on occasion. Rivaini or Nevarran, most likely.

Anders took the map from her. "Hawke. You need to see this."

Hawke rose. The front of the map was normal. But on the back, someone had made a perfect tracing and there was a line in red tracing back from the eastern Highway to Denerim and Amaranthine and then the Frostbacks. There was more writing there, and it was in Common.

"Oh, shit." That was their trail. This man, whoever he was, had been hunting them. 

Anders gestured to the writing. "Look. 'Encampments set up on the southern Highway at Eastwood, in the Bannorn at Bransrock and the Circle Tower. Northern forces to hold the passes until winter. Detachments from Orlais to hold the southern passes. Agreements with Orzammar, with Queen Anora, with Arl of Redcliffe. Abomination believed to be heading east. Tracking parties..."

Hawke swore. The map showed every templar encampment in Ferelden. Every road, every dirt track, all of it watched. The templars would bottle them in the east and strangle them until they did something desperate.

Anders let out a bitter laugh. "They must have emptied half the Circles to muster this many templars."

Hawke went to agree, then she saw the paragraph at the bottom. "Full command of all forces under Knight-Commander Siobhan of the Starkhaven Circle. Additional troops and funds to be supplied by the City of Starkhaven." 

That was a punch in the gut. She'd seen how angry Sebastian was when she refused to kill Anders, but to commit his entire wealth and army to hunting them? Sebastian had been like a brother to her. Hawke barely believed it. She almost went to hide the rest of the writing from Anders, but he pulled it from her. 

He swore explosively. "How did that... that... choir-boy know we were here?"

And that was the worst part. She'd told him. In that letter when she'd begged for his forgiveness, promised to do whatever she could to right the wrongs she'd done. The letter had been sent from that little village in the Frostbacks and barely three days after he would have received it templars had flooded into Ferelden looking for them.

Anders saw the guilt on her face. "Hawke, how did he know?"

"I told him, Anders. Obviously."

Anders looked away and for a moment Hawke thought Justice was going to take over again. "Maker, Hawke. And you told me to be careful."

Hawke bristled at that, but she let it slide. After all, she'd taken Anders to Ferelden to try to protect him, and now she'd brought most of the Templar Order to hunt him. 

She'd known, even when she'd been writing the letter, that this might be a possibility. But she'd refused to believe it. Sebastian had been there for her time and again. WHen she'd come to him with all her angst and worry over Merrill and the eluvian he'd been patient and kind, the picture of a perfect friend. And she couldn't even blame him for this. She'd betrayed him first.

"Well, what do we do?" Hawke knew Anders was still angry, but he seemed to have put that aside to try to figure out a solution.

Hawke sighed. "It says the Templars have agreements with Orzammar and Ferelden- and Orlais is hardly safe, either. We can't go back to the Free Marches. That leaves Tevinter... or the Dalish."

A slight smile formed on Anders' face. "Their offer is looking more and more tempting, isn't it?"

Hawke had to admit it. She was surprised the Templars had been able to broker a deal with the dwarves, but they were the biggest buyer of lyrium. Orzammar might starve without Chantry support. The Dalish, on the other hand, would never make a deal with the Chantry who had destroyed their home. An arlathvhen was big enough to hide in and Hawke had an invitation. Until they found a more permanent solution, this was the best Hawke could think of.

Hawke took the man's knapsack and tied it about her waist. "Maybe it is. Come on, we're losing daylight."

There were two things niggling at her as they started down the road. The first was an old worry. It went something like _m_ _errill where are you are you safe are you happy do you miss me are you okay_ and so on. But the other was new. The road they were on passed through the eastern Bannorn forests, where it met a wide, deep river. A river with one bridge for fifty kilometres to the north or south. And on the map they'd taken from the man with the strange insignia, there had been a fort and a templar camp sitting right on top of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry for slow updates im in europe rn but more soon hopefully


	13. briala

The eluvian was talking.

Merrill hadn't believed it at first. She heard the voices faintly, drifting into her head as she lay on the edge of sleep, and she'd told herself she was only dreaming. But now there was no mistaking it. The voices were muffled by the lambswool that swathed the eluvian in its travelling crate, but they were there.

She sat up from her place in the long grass by the cart. The voices came again and she was sure she caught a few words of old Elvish. A little way off the road, Mahariel lay with her head resting on her pack, her dog at her feet. The moon was high and the trees rustled in the night breeze.

Merrill got up and climbed onto the cart. It was probably nothing. The eluvian used to whisper quite a lot back in Kirkwall, usually late at night after she'd spent hours and litres of blood in rituals on its shattered glass. She'd gotten used to the murmuring, though it had bothered Hawke terribly. 

But she had to check all the same. She took the wooden lever for opening the crate and pried the front off the box where it lay in the cart. The horse knickered softly and Merrill paused, but then he put his head back down and she relaxed. Mahariel needed her sleep, and even though she'd told her about the mirror two nights ago she still didn't trust the Warden's reaction on seeing the object that had taken her best friend.

The lambswool came away. The crescent moon shone in the cracked glass and Merrill saw her own pale face peering up back at her. She sighed. It was nothing.

She went to replace the lambswool, but there was a movement in the corner of her eye and she turned back. One of the shards of glass, a piece she still hadn't fully repaired, was showing something different. Not the moon, not her reflection. Part of a face. One bright, brown eye and a pointed ear. An elf.

There was a lump in Merrill's throat. The eluvian worked. She couldn't believe it. After everything she'd spent the eluvian was showing a figure and it wasn't her.

And that meant she wasn't alone. Someone else had found an eluvian and they'd seen how important it was just like she had and she wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry.

The voice came again, still fuzzy and indistinct. Merrill put her celebrations aside. She needed to talk to this person, whoever they were, and she had no idea how long they'd wait. 

She cleared her mind and breathed deep. Around her, the branches of the trees reached out and took the eluvian and lifted it up and out of the cart and held it, creaking, a few centimetres above the grass.

Merrill leapt lightly off the cart and faced the eluvian. That face was still there, one brown eye staring out at her. The voices came more often now and she realised there must be many other eluvians connected. She still could only make out individual words, but the voices were distinct and it sounded like a meeting or an argument.

Briefly, Merrill wondered whether she ought to wake Mahariel. Hawke had made her promise never to practise her blood magic without someone to watch over her. But there wasn't time and she couldn't risk this, not now when she was so close.

Merrill drew her ritual knife. The iron was like a shard of ice in her palm. She drew it across her hand and she barely even felt the cut. Blood bubbled up between her fingers and formed a ring around the mirror and the branches supporting it. Merrill closed her eyes and breathed deep and focussed on the spell Audacity had taught her, the one that had got Marethari killed.

Merrill opened her eyes and released the spell. Her blood glowed and the voices sharpened and the first one she'd heard broke out above the others. The tongue was elvish, undeniably, but with a heavy accent Merrill couldn't place. "-need to be ready if war breaks out... the Dales can be taken only if... to be careful on the roads east, too many ...-plars for easy comfort," The voice broke off suddenly and the brown eye twitched and saw her.

A little more of the person was visible now. Three other shards had gone black, then formed more parts of the figure. Merrill saw a long boot and part of a court dress and a beautifully styled head of hair.

The voice swore in a language Merrill didn't understand. The face moved out of the shard of glass and Merrill's heart leapt into her throat.

"Don't go! You have an eluvian too, don't you?"

The face was still gone, but the voice came again, cautious. "Who are you? We know of all the eluvians in this part of the world. Whose did you steal?"

Merrill was flustered and she tended to babble. "I didn't steal it, it's my eluvian. I fixed it." 

"You fixed it?" There was a note of incredulity in the voice. "That's not possible."

"No, it is, just very difficult. Oh, I'm Merrill, by the way. Aneth ara."

Slowly, the face came back into view. Merrill saw a little more of it now. She was definitely an elf, but far more pretty and well-dressed than Merrill had ever seen. She looked like one of the nobles in Hightown who Hawke used to tell her stories about. 

"Briala. You are Dalish?"

"Yes, well, I used to be. I left a while ago. How many eluvians are there? I didn't think anyone else had one."

One of the other voices spoke quickly, not in elvish. Merrill recognised it suddenly- it was the same as those templars they'd met. Orlesian. It never even occurred to her to try to conceal her identity. Whoever Briala was, she had an eluvian, which meant perhaps she could help her. 

Briala responded in quick, sharp Orlesian and the second voice shut up. She turned back to Merrill. "My apologies. We have not used these mirrors before tonight. It was hoped they would be a means of secret communication between our agents. Apparently, that was illfounded."

"I won't tell anyone! I wouldn't even know who to tell, really. Are you Orlesians? Or Dalish?"

The second voice tried to speak again but Briala cut him off. "Would you give us your sworn word, Merrill, not to reveal our secrets? A scholar of the ancient eluvians might prove helpful for our cause. And as our leader," her tone grew harsh, directed toward the other voices in the eluvian, "it is my decision who is permitted to join."

Merrill hesitated. Just for a moment, she wondered what Hawke would think. She'd never liked the eluvian, and if Merrill told her she was joining a secret elvish society she'd probably laugh and ask when the designated meadow-frolicking hours were. But if they could help her learn more about the eluvian, that was all that mattered. And they'd called her _a scholar of the ancient eluvians._ That was lovely.

 "I swear I won't tell a soul. Or a spirit, or a darkspawn, or anything else which doesn't have one . Is that enough?"

Briala looked a little bemused, but she nodded. "Good. You must be near Orlais for your eluvian to join our network. There will soon be an arlathvhen at Halamshiral. Can you get there?"

"Um, yes, I suppose, but the Dalish aren't very fond of me anymore. I don't think they'd let me in."

Briala laughed. She sounded like a playactor. "I can take care of that. Be at the arlathvhen and I will find you." She turned, answered someone Merrill couldn't hear, then turned back to Merrill. "Time is short. Go to the arlathvhen. Goodbye, Merrill."

The mirror went dark and the other voices, which had risen into a clamour as Briala left, went silent.

Merrill breathed out and her blood splashed to earth. It was almost impossible to believe. An entire network of eluvians, connecting an elvhen society. It was so much more than she'd ever dreamed. 

She had promised herself that once the eluvian was finished, working again and back in the ruins of the Brecilian Forest, she could give it up and go hunting for the Champion. Now she was going west, away from the Forest. She told herself Hawke would understand. Learning more about the eluvian was the most important thing. But when the trees had put her mirror back in its crate and she lay back down in the grass, she still felt a little guilty.

Mahariel slumbered not twenty metres away. She wondered that she hadn't woken, but it was a blessing. Merrill had no idea how she would tell Mahariel to turn around and go back the way they'd come.

 

 


	14. the encampment

The long grass above the river tickled Hawke's nose and she held in a sneeze. She doubted the templars would hear her- the river between them was deep and burbled noisily, but she still didn't intend to risk it. With a supreme effort, she forced the sneeze down and used one hand to reach forward and rip the clump of grass up and away from her.

At her left shoulder, she heard Anders snort. Briefly, she considered throwing the grass at him, but thought better of it. For the Champion of Kirkwall to be caught and killed because she was mucking about like a dumb kid- well, that would just be sad. She returned her attention to the encampment. It wasn't as large as the dead man's map had suggested. Obviously this was considered a less important road to watch, as the camp only numbered six two-man tents, but twelve templars was far more than Hawke could comfortably handle.

The grassy hill they lay on rolled gently down to the river, where the wagon trail out of the forest became a proper farmer's track across the river and into the fields. There was an old farmhouse in the middle distance, and she could just make out a twinkle in the horizon that would be Lake Calenhad.

A direct attack was all but out of the question. The templar camp squatted on the only bridge into the fields of the Bannorn for miles, and they had taken an old, half-ruined tower on their side of the river as their lookout.

Wrapped in the shadows of the forest, Hawke doubted the scouts who manned the crumbling tower could see them, but she'd never get both Anders and her across the bridge without being spotted. Rows of torches lined the little arch bridge and for a hundred metres to the north and south. Briefly, Hawke wondered what the farmer who owned those fields had said when the templars marched in and nicked their bridge. She hoped it was something rude.

Anders' voice was quiet in her ear. "Any ideas?"

Hawke kept her own voice low, but couldn't resist baiting him. "Why don't I go down there and distract them while you sneak in and plant a big magic bomb on the tower? That always works out well."

"Oh, no, let's just write a letter asking them nicely to let us pass." He was still yet to forgive her for that, but he was joking about it, which was a good sign.

 _Do you think that would work, Anders? They look awfully cross_. Hawke felt a lump in her throat. Just for a moment, she'd felt sure she that lilting Dalish voice had come from beside her. But Hawke was here and Merrill was stuck back in Kirkwall in all the rubble and templars and death.

Hawke shook those thoughts from her. Ex-lovers weren't welcome right now. She had templars to kill, not that she had any idea how to do that. "Well, we won't gain anything sitting here. Come on."

They moved back, staying prone until they were lost in the treeline. Absently, Hawke wondered how she'd been thinking of Merrill as her ex-lover.

 

The moon was rising as they prepared to leave. The air was already turning cold, which was a bad sign. If they couldn't get through the Frostbacks before winter came- well, they were called the Frostbacks for a reason.

Hawke's plan was desperate.Their food supplies were low, again, and they needed to keep moving. They had the element of surprise, but against twelve templars- well, she wasn't optimistic.

She and Anders would rush the bridge in the night. A few well-placed fireballs would have the camp in disarray, and then they would make their way over the bridge and deal with survivors. It wasn't a good plan. Even if they beat the templars in a fight, she would need to kill every last one to prevent word spreading of her and Anders' exact whereabouts to every templar in Ferelden.

But they could wait no longer. She signalled to the mage and together they began to move down the road, sticking to the low hedges and pools of shadow. They hadn't gone twenty metres, still well within the protection of the forest, when she heard a jaunty whistle and the rhythmic trot of a horse.

Hawke grabbed Anders and pulled him up, listening. The rider was behind them, coming out of the forest. The whistling grew louder and she motioned Anders over into the underbrush. It was late for a farmer or hunter to still be in the forest and Hawke was suspicious.

Anders opened his mouth in protest, but she waved him silent and shoved him down into the ditch by the edge of the road. The whistling stopped, abruptly, and Hawke peered over the lip of the ditch. She heard a male voice, apparently speaking to a companion.

"Are you serious? If we have to stop every time you smell even a whiff of darkspawn-"

Anders tried to speak and Hawke shot him a look and he shut up. "Yes, of course I sense it too. But I'm not some bloody princess who's so afraid of the dark-"

A horse whinnied.

"Right, ok, sorry. I didn't mean to insult you."

Hawke heard a thud and then the clinking of metal boots and a sword in it's sheath. "Yes, well, I'm checking it out, aren't I? I'm telling you there isn't one tainted creature for a hundred- ah."

A man rounded the bend, wearing chainmail and a full plate helm. He bore a sword and a round shield but in the dark Hawke couldn't make out the insignia. He was followed by a horse in plate barding, though it was ill-fitting and looked more like a pack-animal than a chevalier's warhorse.

The knight's voice rang out in the night. "Would the Grey Warden sitting in the ditch please stand up and tell me why he is in a ditch, whether he is there by choice, and if so does he intends to live there from now on. In that order, please." Despite his tone, Hawke saw the knight's hand resting on his sword-hilt.

Anders looked at her balefully and she realised that he'd been trying to tell her exactly this- that Anders could sense the man on the horse, and so the man could also sense him. The mage stood, resigned, and Hawke followed him, taking care that her knives were loose in their sheathes.

Hawke could now see the griffon-badge on the Warden's surcoat quite easily. She cursed herself- of all the people to be riding along a dirt track, did it have to be one of the vanishingly rare warriors who could sense Anders wherever he hid?

The knight spoke again, and though his tone was still light there was steel in it. "If we were somewhere else, I'd say you were a Warden-Recruit enjoying the night with his lady friend. But we're in the middle of nowhere. So you are either a Warden who is unbelievably, hopelessly lost," his voice lost its joking tone, or a deserter."

Hawke spoke before Anders. "Maybe we're both?"

When he heard her voice the Warden started. She had an inkling who he was now- a memory from years ago, in a courtyard in Kirkwall- but she needed to be sure. The Warden reached up and undid his helm and she saw a face at once scarred and aged and oddly boyish. "Champion. We meet in odd places, don't we?"

Hawke inclined her head. "Alistair."

"Warden-Commander Alistair now, actually. This is the Princess of Weisshaupt."

Hawke assumed he meant his horse, but she wasn't about to question that point, not this close to the templar encampment. "A pleasure."

She didn't know Alistair well- other than that brief meeting in Kirkwall, all she'd heard about him was that he'd helped the Hero of Ferelden end the Blight.

Alistair frowned. "Well, Champion, want to tell me why you're in a ditch in Ferelden, rather than your city? Kirkwall's not been in great shape since the Qunari affair, has it?"

Hawke wondered just how much he knew about the affairs of the city. Most people knew about Anders and his plan- since the Chantry explosion, his manifesto had become the most published and most illegal pamphlet in the Free Marches. But whether Alistair would recognise him by sight was another matter.

"I suppose it hasn't. I'm, well, I'm running an errand." 

"Would that errand maybe have something to do with all the templars squatting on every road in Ferelden? Nick something important from the Chantry?"

Anders spoke up. "That's one way of putting it." Alistair looked to him, and the mage stared at him defiantly.

Alistair turned back to Hawke. She held his gaze, watching him think. A long moment passed.

"Well, good for you." His eyes were open, guileless, and Hawke didn't believe for a second that he didn't know who Anders was. "Shall we make camp? I've been in the saddle for, ugh, far too long."

Hawke knew they needed to keep moving, but she somehow felt that while Alistair might be willing to look the other way- for what reason, she had no idea, but it seemed he was willing- he would be unlikely to sit by while they murdered their way through the templar camp. And he probably had food.

She clapped Anders on the shoulder. "That works for us. We're in no rush."

 

 


	15. the statue

Redcliffe shone in the flat light of the sunset, all copper and grey. The road split and one fork led down into the village, while the other took a wide loop around the entrance to the little gully.

Merrill pulled on the reins and the horse whinnied in displeasure as the bridle bit into his mouth. She’d always been awful with animals, which was probably part of why she’d have made such an awful Keeper. She murmured an apology in Elvish but she doubted the horse understood it.

Merrill heard chainmail clinking from the back of the cart as Mahariel sat up, groaning as she stretched.

“Why have we stopped?”

Merrill shrugged. “I thought you might want to go into the village.”

“I doubt we can spare the time. Unless I miss my guess, the higher passes over the Frostback will be snowed under in a few days, and then we’d have to loop south deep into the Korcari Wilds.” There was a little asperity in her tone. Merrill had had trouble convincing her that heading east to the arlathvhen was anything less than a colossal waste of time. She hadn’t told her about Briala- she’d made a promise, after all- and though the Warden hadn’t said anything, Merrill could tell she was annoyed at the time they’d wasted heading west.

Merrill stood and peered down into the village. Based on her experience in Kirkwall, she’d thought all humans divided their cities with great walls and gates to keep the poor and the city elves away from the rich, but Redcliffe village didn’t even have walls around it, just the castle looming out of the darkness above them.

Mahariel followed her gaze. “Seems a bit haphazard, doesn’t it? I’d have thought that after the Blight, they’d have improved their defenses.”

There was a statue in the centre of the town, cut from the same red stone as the castle. Merrill peered at it. It was a long way down, but she could see that it wasn’t Andraste- the figure bore a large kite shield raised over her head and a long sword held out behind her. Merrill gestured to it.

“I’ve never seen a statue like that. Who is it?”

Mahariel glanced down. “I don’t know, it wasn’t there last time I was here.”

Merrill looked at the Warden. She was very pointedly not looking down at the village. “It isn’t- it’s not you, is it?” She stretched up on her tiptoes, trying to get a better look. “It is!” Merrill clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Mahariel, we have to go see it now.”

“We’ll lose the light. We need to cover as much ground as we can-” Merrill ignored the Warden’s protests and leapt off the cart and down the hill to the statue. Mahariel swore and followed her.

 

 

“Goodness. It’s very big, isn’t it?”

Mahariel stood with her hood up by the entrance to the square. Merrill was sure she was blushing. “People like to exaggerate.”

The stone-Mahariel glared down at Merrill. She stood guard before the Chantry of the village, her jaw set in a firm line and her huge kite shield raised in the direction of the road up out of the village. She was also awfully top-heavy.

Merrill turned to Mahariel and giggled. “How did you walk around with all that weight on your chest? You must have had trouble.”

Mahariel sighed, but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “They thought they were doing something nice. That counts for something, I suppose. Let’s go before someone recognises me.”

Merrill laughed. “I don’t think anyone will. Not if they’re looking for the lady up there.”

Mahariel didn’t answer. She was looking up at the statue. “No, you’re right, aren’t you? There’s not much of a likeness. Even apart from the, uh, embellishments.”

Merrill went to stand by the Warden. “I suppose I see why you don’t like people recognising you, if they do things like this.”

Mahariel put her hand on the pommel of her sword, rubbing the ball of iron over and over. “Look at her ears. Bloody humans.”

Merrill followed her gaze. There were points on the statue’s ears- if you squinted. And the face had no vallaslin. The statue was not Dalish, and barely an elf. Merrill wasn’t a particularly proud elf; she’d always thought the city elves rather silly, and the Dalish stuck in their ways, and it wasn’t as though the statue really mattered anyway. But it still rankled.

Once, just after she moved into Hightown, she’d heard some of the nobles talking about Hawke. They’d said the Champion had taken an elvish servant as her lover. At the time, Merrill had been confused- she hadn't seen any servants around the manor. It was several days before she realised they’d meant her, and by that point she’d all but forgotten them. She was too busy and too happy during those days to care much what the Hightown folk wanted to whisper about. But now the memory came back to her.

Mahariel spoke again. “Things like this… if it wasn’t for Alistair, I might not have been so invested in keeping towns like this on the map.” She sighed.

The statue wasn’t funny any more, Merrill thought. Now it was just sad. She turned to Mahariel. “Would you keep an eye out for me, please?” The square before the Chantry was empty- it would be several hours before the night service, and most of the townsfolk were still at dinner.

The Warden frowned at her. “Why? What are you going to do?”

Merrill gave her a grin and slit her palm open.

 

The cart felt an awful lot lighter as they rode back up the hill in the deepening night. Merrill was riding in the back again and she clasped her staff across her lap, watching the village disappear into shadow.

“Do you really think the passes will be snowed over?”

Mahariel’s voice was more cheerful than it had been since Merrill met her. “Maybe. We’ll have to ride a long way before we make camp, and get up early.” She was silent for a long moment. “How long until they find it, do you think?”

“A few hours. We should make sure we aren’t here when they do.” Behind them, Merrill could just see the statue’s feet, sticking high into the air. Balancing the Warden upside-down had been difficult- especially on top of the cliff behind the Chantry. It would be a few days before she could cast magic like that again, but it was worth it.


	16. the calling

Hawke poked at the dead coals of their cookfire, making sure there were no sparks to catch on the undergrowth around them. Deep in the forest as they were, and with the wind in the north, she doubted the templars would smell the smoke, but she still had no intention of letting the flames burn longer than necessary. Alistair had produced old black bread and smoked meats and cheese and to Hawke, half-starved as she was, it was as fine a supper as any she’d had in Hightown. 

 

Anders was stretched out on his bedroll, his staff clasped loosely in one hand as he slept. Alistair sat on the other side of the clearing, his own hand on the grip of his sword. Hawke sat back from the ashes and sat against the bole of a tree, picked at a stick poking into her back. 

 

Alistair spoke, quiet in the still night. “You trust him?” There was no question who he meant.

 

Hawke shrugged. “No. But he’s my friend.”

 

Alistair mulled that over, his hand absently sliding his blade out of its scabbard, then letting it drop. “He was Mahariel’s, as well. I know what happened to him never sat right with her.”

 

Anders had told her that story long ago- how the Wardens had set a templar to guard him, and what Justice had done to protect them both. “Is that why you’re helping us?”

 

“Helping you? That’s a bit too treasonous, even for me. But I wasn’t going to hand you over, either. Grey Wardens are sworn to take no part, and all that.”

 

“Well, that’s more than anyone else we’ve met. Thank you, Alistair.”

 

Alistair shrugged. “Truth be told, I doubt the Wardens would be too pleased if I got killed trying to execute one apostate, no matter what he’d done. There are bigger matters at hand.”

 

Anders rolled over, muttered something. Hawke glanced at him, then back at Alistair. “That’s what you said in Kirkwall, when the qunari attacked. What’s going on?”

 

“Warden business.” Alistair’s face was troubled. “Nothing pleasant, I’m afraid. We could really use Mahariel right now.”

 

“She isn’t with you?”

 

“She and Warden-Commander Clarel don’t really get along. She’s off on personal business. She still writes from time to time, but...” He trailed off. 

 

The Warden was lovesick, she realised. She decided to give that topic a wide berth. “Well, what are you doing in Ferelden?”

 

“Hunting. Tracking a darkspawn. I’m a professional, you know.”

 

Hawke nodded. “Well, we haven’t seen any since the Imperial Highway near the Forest. Anders slaughtered a whole pack there.”

 

Alistair smiled wryly. “Well, I suppose he’s not a deserter, then. You can take that off the list.” 

 

The mage in question rolled over again, muttering. Hawke half-rose, concerned. 

 

“What do you think-”

 

Anders’ eyes shot open and piercing blue light cracked through his skin. He screamed and his voice was mingled with Justice’s.

 

Hawke leapt to her feet and grabbed the mage by the shoulders, held him down. His screams were the sound of an animal in pain and he twitched and rocked violently under her.

 

Alistair’s face was grim. He handed her a blanket. “Gag him, unless you want every templar for a hundred miles to hear.”

She took the blanket and whispered an apology, then shoved it in Anders’ mouth. He still screamed but now it was muted and thin. His eyes, still lit by blue light, rolled frantically in his head.

 

Alistair whistled. “Never seen it happen like that before. That’ll be Justice’s influence, right?”

 

Hawke looked at him, frantic. “What the hell is happening?”

 

He met her eyes steadily. “It’s the Calling. Every Warden hears it, eventually. Nothing to do but wait it out.”

 

A cold fear gripped Hawke. Anders had told her what the Calling was, but he’d made it sound as if he had years before he heard it. “He’s been a Warden for what, ten years? That’s how long you live?”

 

“It varies based on the Warden. Some resist the taint for longer. But it comes for everyone, eventually.”

 

“Is there a cure?” Something about his answer niggled at her, but she put it aside.

 

Alistair shrugged. “I only know of one Warden who forestalled the Calling for long, and he was a maleficar. But that’s where Mahariel is now, off searching for a cure.” 

 

Anders slowly quietened and his skin stopped glowing. He relaxed and she laid him back down on his bedroll, taking the blanket from his mouth. She sat back, listening. If the templars had heard him, she’d have expected them to be in the clearing by now. 

 

“It comes more often, the longer you last. Then you start to hear it when you’re awake as well as when you sleep. It’s not a pleasant experience.” Hawke looked at him and for the first time she saw the bags under his eyes, the grey pallor on his skin. Alistair had heard it too, she realised. She didn’t know him well, but she’d always thought he was little more than a few years after his Joining at the time of the Blight.

 

“I knew that the Joining was a death sentence, but…” Hawke gestured hopelessly. “I guess I didn’t think it’d come so soon.”

 

Alistair didn’t meet her eyes this time. “Yes, well, no-one ever does, do they? The Wardens have dealt with the Calling since we were founded. We know what it means.” 

 

Hawke rested her hand on Anders’ forehead. It was slick with sweat. Had he known that the Calling would come for him so soon? Perhaps that was why he had been so willing to accept his death as punishment for what he’d done in Kirkwall, knowing he only had a few months left.

 

But that struck her as wrong. Anders had known what he was giving up when he destroyed the Chantry, but he hadn’t intended to martyr himself. He believed he was creating a better world for the mages, and he had intended to live in it if he could. She remembered his words when she spared him.  _ You’ll let me live? Let me help? _

 

And now he was going to die anyway, despite all her noble gestures, all she’d given up to help him. Before he could even begin to make amends for what he’d done. That was just unfair.

 

She shoved those thoughts from her. He still had to have at least a year, maybe more. Anders was part spirit, after all. She had to focus on the problems she could do something about- like the templar encampment.

 

Alistair seemed to sense her intentions. “There’s nothing you can do for him, Hawke. This is something every Warden faces, and we face it alone.”

 

Hawke nodded. She stood and took her weapons belt from where it lay by her bedroll.“It’ll be dawn soon. I need to scout the encampment, figure out a way through.”

 

Alistair nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Go.”

 

Just for a second, Hawke hesitated. She was uncomfortable leaving Anders unconscious, even with Alistair to watch over him. But they had to cross the river today. 

 

Hawke buckled her daggers up on her back, then strode out of the clearing back towards the river. She kept to the shadows of the pre-dawn light, still half-expecting to run into a templar wondering why the forest had started screaming.

 

But the forest was deserted, as always. She found her old spot and lay down in the grass and edged forward to peer down the bank at the encampment.

 

The tents ringed the campfire across the bridge and the blazing sword banners snapped in the dawn breeze. She scanned the fields to the north and south, as she had a dozen times, searching the river for eddies and currents that revealed where it grew shallow enough to sneak by. She knew they weren’t there but she checked anyway, just in case.

 

Then her eyes snapped back to the encampment. The tents were there, and the old tower, but where were the sentries? Not one flat-topped helmet glinted in the rising sun. The campfire in the centre of the camp was cold ashes.

 

Hawke’s heart was in her mouth. There was no way they would just  _ leave,  _ would they? It had to be a trick. But her eyes did not mislead her: the camp was deserted. The templars might as well have been snatched by the Maker himself.

 

She pushed herself back, still half-expecting templars to come leaping out of the woods around her. They hadn’t packed up the camp, so they obviously intended to return. She didn’t waste time wondering where they’d gone. Hawke wouldn’t get another chance like this. It was time to leave.


	17. the mountains

The horse steamed in the freezing air. The road up into the Frostbacks was long and winding, mired in switchbacks and sudden turns. Mahariel had told Merrill that the pass had once been a dwarven trading route, but they had abandoned it during the First Blight. Without the dwarves to clear the gully of the huge snowdrifts that accumulated in the winter, the pass had become unusable in the winter. Occasionally, merchants would attempt to beat the snows and make it through the mountains before the spring market season. They rarely made it through.

Looking at the mountain of snow blocking the mountain pass, Merrill began to understand why. It was almost a solid wall, packed hard and deep.

Mahariel let out a disgusted sigh. “Of course the pass is blocked. It’d be too easy otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

They could make their way down the mountains, follow the road north to Orzammar and take the northern pass into Orlais. But by then the arlathvhen would be half over, and Briala hadn’t struck Merrill as particularly patient. They needed to go now.

Merrill stood on the back of the cart and took her staff in one hand. “I can open the way.”

Mahariel looked at her doubtfully. “Merrill, there’s a lot of snow.”

Merrill didn’t respond. There was a spell the Keeper had taught her, Creation magic that the First was expected to perform after the clan picked over their hunting grounds and moved on.

She went to draw her ritual knife, but something stopped her. Somehow she didn’t think Marethari would approve of blood magic being used for this spell. She needed to do this properly.

She stood tall and twisted her staff around her chest. There was an elvhish prayer she was supposed to say, but she had forgotten more of it than she cared to admit.

The snowdrift shone in a ray of sunlight, glowing so bright it hurt Merrill’s eyes. Little rivers of water began to form and washed over the horse’s hooves and Mahariel stepped quickly out of the way. Merrill maintained the spell for as long as she could, until the drift of snow was barely up to their ankles. She laid her staff down, panting slightly. The spell wasn’t particularly costly, but it had been a long time since she last relied purely on her magic and not blood.

Mahariel got back up on the cart and looked at her. “Well, that makes things easier, but it’s still a long way across the mountains. We may get snowed in.”

Merrill sat heavily on the cart, catching her breath. She’d met Firsts who could work that spell as easy as breathing, who could leave entire groves of trees blooming in the dead of winter and flowers springing up in their footprints. But Merrill had never been particularly adept with Creation magic- her sunlight was always too hot, her rainstorms too violent.

“I can keep up. We have lyrium potions, don’t we?”

Mahariel snapped the reins and started the horse into the culvert. “A few. I think we’re going to need them all.”

 

It was slow going. When the dwarves had maintained the pass, the culvert had had a strong roof of stone and wood to shield them from glimpsing the sky and losing their stone-sense. But under hundreds of years of mountain storms, the roof had caved in and the path took long detours up into the mountains, where the snow was often higher than Merrill’s head.

After about six hours, they reached the highest point of the pass. Here the snow towered over them, taller than the qunari Merrill had seen in Kirkwall.

Mahariel brought the cart to a stop as they rounded the next bend, yet another snow drift dwarfing them. She turned to Merrill. “How are you feeling?”

Merrill reached into her rucksack for a lyrium potion. “I’ll be alright. We’re nearly through now, aren’t we?”

“Yes. From here, the road heads down into Orlais. We’re lucky it’s still early. In a few weeks there’ll be snow all the way down the mountain.”

Merrill shivered. She had little in the way of winter clothing- her clan had always avoided Ferelden during winter, and the Free Marches didn’t even get snow. Mahariel had lent her gloves and thick fur slippers, but the constant cold coupled with the first pangs of magical exhaustion made her feel as if the icy air was seeping into her blood.

She pulled out one empty bottle, then another. Merrill pulled her rucksack up beside her, emptied it onto the cart. The lyrium had run out.

“Oh.”

Mahariel turned to her, concerned. “What is it?”

It wasn’t the end of the world, Merrill told herself. She still had her blood. But there was something here, a buzzing presence in the air.

Merrill closed her eyes and focussed. It was just magical exhaustion, she told herself. It tended to mess with her perception. She cast her mind back to that night in her hut, how Hawke had looked in the doorway, silhouetted against the city. Magical exhaustion. She just needed a little blood.

Merrill drew her ritual knife, a shard of ice in her palm. Mahariel’s face tightened and she looked away. Merrill ignored her. They were nearly through now, weren’t they?

The knife slipped through her palm and the blood wound about her staff, waiting for her. She cast the spell and the setting sun grew blisteringly hot. The snow drift melted and washed down the culvert, a wave of ice water that made the horse snort in displeasure.

“Merrill, stop. What’s that in the snow?”

Merrill peered at the drift, saw what the melting snow was giving up. A plank of wood, still half-buried. A canvas sail. A broken wheel.

A hand, frozen blue.

 _"Vashedan.”_ The Qunari curse sounded very strange from Mahariel’s mouth. Her dog rose from the seat beside her and growled, low and long.

It was an aravel, Merrill realised. The sun beat down on the snow and more of the drift melted away. There was an elf on the aravel, his face frozen blue. She saw another hand in the snow, a head, a frozen sword.

The buzzing was there again. It wasn’t exhaustion, Merrill realised. The Veil here was paper-thin.

The elf on the aravel twitched. There was a rush of blood in Merrill’s ears and the Fade opened and the elf stood, a long blade in his hand.

The snow drift was barely a metre deep now, and more bodies began to twitch and stand. Merrill saw a beautiful hart, its head twisted at a strange angle, saw more aravels, and in all of them elves- warriors and hunters and children and wives, all standing and turning to face them.

“Merrill?” Mahariel’s voice was steady, without even a hint of fear.

Merrill didn’t respond. For a moment, everything was hazy and indistinct. The Veil pounded on her mind. How hadn’t she felt that?

Her eyes snapped back into focus. Mahariel stood on the driving seat of the cart, calmly watching the elves. She didn’t have her shield, Merrill thought dimly.

Something broke then and the elves rushed at the cart and Mahariel leapt forward, her longsword singing from its scabbard and her mabari hound snarling at her side.

Merrill summoned a fireball from her staff, blasting a pair of elves off their feet, but it was feeble and they stood and the flames fizzled and died. She needed more blood.

Mahariel met the first elf head-on, catching his sword with hers and punching her gauntleted hand right through his frozen stomach. She spun and faced another, but the first elf kept coming. Merrill could see the setting sun through the hole in his chest. She shouted a warning, but the mabari leapt on the elf and ripped through his neck before Mahariel even noticed he was still standing.

Mahariel took her blade in both hands and pirouetted, beheaded an elf and kicked backwards, knocking another down into the snow. But there were too many and Merrill saw a sword slam down on her back. The frozen blade screeched off her chainmail vest, but Mahariel still staggered and Merrill knew she was injured. She needed help.

She found her ritual knife and brought it to her arm, but her exhausted fingers slipped. A great sheet of blood spattered her hand and she realised she'd opened an artery.

Dimly, Merrill looked at her arm, the pulsing gouts of blood painting her side crimson. There was so _much_ there, her life pouring out and wasting away on the snow.

How like her, she thought idly. She’d killed herself, and Mahariel, and her dog and her horse, all because her stupid fingers couldn’t make one good cut.

She heard a cry and saw Mahariel stumble as the elves crowded her. She couldn’t make any space and though she killed two for every one that hit her, she was still taking terrible blows. Her hound ripped at the edges of the crowd but the elves ignored him, focussing on the Warden.

Merrill’s vision began to go grey. She saw an elf peel off from the crowd and come at her and she raised her staff, but he wasn’t aiming at her. She heard their horse scream as the elf ripped its throat open, more crimson staining the snow.

She saw a blade rise high and slam down on Mahariel and she went down, swarmed by the elves. She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch.

Her mind went to Hawke, the way she used to laugh when she fought. The way she danced around ogres and qunari and templars, slit their throats and spat blood in their faces.

She was going to die here. That thought brought Merrill perfect clarity. Her staff was in her hand and she had plenty of blood now.

She heard thunder and she opened her eyes. The mountains rumbled and lightning flashed from her staff and the stone ruptured around them, showering her with bits of rock and gravel.

Merrill stood until every last possessed elf was dust and ashes, then she let herself fall off the cart. The snow was not soft.

 


End file.
